


Hate Me

by English_Tea_Roses



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Codependency, Drug Abuse, Heavy Angst, Hurts So Good, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sadness, Self-Discovery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, do not model your own relationships after these two, lots of sadness, so many issues like are you kidding me, this is really sad I'm sorry for hurting your feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/English_Tea_Roses/pseuds/English_Tea_Roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Corinth was supposed to be nice place. Enjolras had heard it was a nice place. But under the haze of cigarette smoke, loud music, and animal desire at the bar, Enjolras will discover pleasures and desires he had never dreamed of under the capable hands of the smoky lead singer. </p><p>Grantaire was a man who was always running, never staying in one place for too long. But when an angel steals his heart, he may have either found a reason to stay or the drive to run away from feeling again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inside The Dragon's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire finds a second job.

"The fuck are you? We don't open for another three fuckin' hours, kid," the grizzled man spat out. He was about fifty, with a paunchy belly, greasy gray hair, and a face lined with age and anger. Grantaire, though the stench of the man's breath made him reel, held his ground and looked him dead in the eye. He'd worked for men who didn't quite have a grasp on basic hygiene before and he’d do it again if it meant money. He held his ground and looked the man in his surprisingly clear blue eyes.

“Sign outside says you need a new singer for the band. Here I am,” Grantaire said. The man guffawed and continued cleaning glasses. The bar itself was decent, not an upscale Manhattan bar for the celebrities to cheat on their spouses in, but not a total dive either. Though shabby and dark, the room was pretty clean. On the other side were two stages, one set up with a full band kit, the other completely bare.  Grantaire found the latter stage interesting; he’d expected a pole or something. But perhaps the bar’s strippers were more of a dancing-on-tables type rather than an acrobatics-on-a-pole type.

“Get the fuck outta here, a singer? Not like we don’t have plenty of those in New York. You sing rock? Not that pussy teenage shit either, real rock.”

“Born and raised on AC/DC. Do I have the job?” Grantaire liked to be direct, no use dancing around a topic. Besides, he felt the barman would respond better to bluntness than politeness. The man weighed his options for a moment then shrugged his bony shoulders.

“Eh, why the hell not? Not like anyone listens to the band anyway, so it don’t matter if you suck like a whore. Adds a nice feel to the room, makes ‘em willing to pay up, you feel?  You’ve got the right look, all them scars and hair. You got a name?”

“Grantaire. And you are?” Grantaire said, disliking the man even more. It didn’t matter, though; he’d be running out of the city by July.

“Friends call me Thenardier. You’ll get fifty a night plus whatever those drunk bastards throw your way. You dig?” the other man asked. Fifty bucks a night was a sucky takeaway, but Grantaire knew it was enough for a night at one of those shitty motels in the city. His day job at the hospital cleaning up bodily fluids paid him ten an hour, so he would be taken care of while he saved up to go someplace else again.

“Yup. When do you want me to start?” Grantaire asked. Thenardier pulled a lined sheet of paper from a drawer under the counter and passed it to him.

“Learn these by tonight. Johnny, the fuckin’ drummer, has a set list he knows and gave to the others a month or so ago. They been playin’ without a singer ever since then.” At least twenty songs filled up the two-hour set, and Grantaire had to learn them all in three hours! He ran his broad finger down the list, mentally checking off those he knew and had memorized. To his relief, there was only one he didn’t: A Martyr for My Love to You by The White Stripes. Thank God, he knew their music and knew it wasn’t particularly difficult to learn.

“Done. Want me here at nine? Or earlier so I can meet the band?”

“Why don’t you just hang out here and learn your part? We got food, drinks, a sound system.  Band’ll be here at eight to set up and practice; you can meet ‘em then. Unless you got somewhere else to be? “ Thenardier asked. Grantaire shook his head and took a seat at one of the tables.

“Nah, I’ll hang here. I’ll take a pint and some nachos, though. Promise I’m twenty-one, you need my ID?” Grantaire said, settling into his wooden chair and pulling out his phone and headphones. He needed to get a start on learning the unfamiliar song and refreshing himself on the others. It wouldn’t matter if he fucked up bad on stage, but he felt more comfortable when he knew what he was doing. Jack White’s bluesy voice tumbled into his ears, singing a song about inevitably breaking a girl’s smile. Grantaire could relate; he was nobody and nothing to anyone. The song was incredibly simple and he had it pretty much down by the time Thenardier brought over his food a scant hour later. At this hour, he just sipped his beer instead of pounding it down and nibbled on his nachos. While he was refreshing on an old Ramones song, a girl walked in from the back entrance.

She was young, much younger than Grantaire. She was so thin that she looked like a strong wind could knock her down and her hair was very long and dark. Her face, pale and drawn, held blue eyes that looked eighty years old and careworn. He took out his headphones and set them down on the table out of politeness.

“Are we open earlier now or something?” she asked Thenardier, her voice husky and slightly cracked.

“No, this is Grantaire. New lead singer. You on tonight?” Thenardier replied, leaning against the bar.

“Nah, it’s Azelma’s turn. Nice to meet you, Grantaire. I’m Eponine,” she said, extending a hand. Grantaire shook it, surprised at her formality. She was better spoken than the barman and had better manners as well.

“Are you in the band with me? Thenardier said they wouldn’t be here till eight,” he said, a tad confused.

“I just…” she paused, “work in the bar. Might hit the poker tables tonight, see if I can’t win a car from some drunk. Are you singing Johnny’s set?”

Grantaire had to stop and recall that Johnny was the drummer who made the list. He nodded.

“Oh, that’s nice. The last song, the White Stripes one, used to be the last lead singer’s special song for me. He was a nicer guy than you’d think, too.”

“Why’d he leave?”

“Montparnasse went to prison. Nothing bad, you know, just a couple bad deals,” she said in a nonchalant voice. A nice guy, indeed! Grantaire could tell Eponine had a soft spot for him, so he didn’t question her further.

“I’ll do my best to replace him,” he said, only flirting a little. He had no idea how old this girl was and didn’t want to look like a creep.

“I’m positive you’ll do great. Not exactly a tough crowd too please, is it?” she asked and glanced down at her phone, “Shi- shoot, I have to go to class. Say hi to Marius, the bass player, for me when the band shows up, will you?” And just like that, Eponine was gone. Thenardier shook his head.

“Girl’s fucked in the head, let me tell you. Classes? What does she want with classes? She’s just fine here.”

“She your kid?” Grantaire asked with a sinking feeling in his stomach. If he had guessed correctly and she was one of the dancers, this bar’s owner was really fucked up.

“Yeah. Wish she wasn’t; life would be a hell of a lot easier. Always getting above herself now she’s in college, but what can you do?” Thenardier shook his head again and left the room. Grantaire popped his headphones in and leaned back, letting the music wash over him. Before he knew it, an hour had passed and Thenardier was loudly welcoming three young men.

The first, a man with massive biceps and a black muscle shirt who could only be the infamous Johnny, was pointing at Grantaire and appeared to be asking Thenardier to explain. The second, an extraordinarily handsome young man with smooth tawny skin and jet black hair, was nervously plucking at his bass with his left hand. The third was still and silent, a tall and skinny man who looked like his body was a wisp of smoke. Thenardier waved Grantaire over and he joined them.

“Your new lead singer, boys. Deal with it and make nice,” Thenardier said and left to prepare for opening.

“I’m Grantaire, hey.”

“I’m Johnny,” the drummer said, “and this is Marius on bass and Claquesous on guitar. You any good?”

“Hope so. Oh, Marius, Eponine says hi,” Grantaire said. Marius grinned.

“Sweet. You guys up for running through a song or two?” Marius asked. The others nodded and they crossed the room. After getting onstage and making sure the mics and amps were plugged in, they were ready.

“We’ll run through the set list till nine, alright?” Johnny asked, and the first beats of ‘Closer’ pounded out of his drums. Marius soon dropped in with the bass, and Claquesous strummed his electric. Grantaire began the whispering, dreamlike lyrics before dropping in heavy with the chorus. They fit together like model train tracks, a motley crew of capable musicians. Grantaire only had to keep up with them and sing the lyrics; they clearly knew their stuff. By the time nine o’clock rolled around, they were dripping with sweat and his throat was starting to hurt from screaming and lack of water.

“Yo, mind if I go grab a drink before we start the set for real? Gonna die from thirst,” Grantaire asked. He already liked the band members, especially the odd bassist.

“Sure, man, we don’t start till ten or twenty after anyway. Depends on how many people are here. We get a ten-minute break in an hour, so drink up now,” Johnny, who was clearly in charge, said. Marius took a swig out of his water bottle and Grantaire made a mental note to bring one the next night. For now, however, a beer would quench his thirst.

Grantaire hopped the stage and got a bottle from behind the bar, figuring he’d pay for it when the night ended at two in the morning. According to Johnny, they played one two-hour set, took a nice long break, then played the set again until close. With luck, he’d be able to grab a nap between sets and hopefully be in a motel room to sleep until his eight am hospital shift. He shotgunned the contents of the bottle, wiping the froth from his lips. Bar patrons were already coming in, greeted by a jovial Thenardier as he served them drinks. Grantaire took his dark curls down and tied them back tightly to prepare for the strenuous night ahead. As he clamboured up to the stage and flicked his dark eyes over the audience, a crowd of eight men around his age walked in, led by a golden-haired angel. Grantaire willfully ignored them, closed his eyes, and waited for the band to bring him in. At the bass line, he began to sing for the crowd.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware of the extent of ExR in this fandom. No, I'm not going to stop.  
> Hope you've enjoyed chapter one! The chapters should alternate between Enjolras and Grantaire's perspectives; if I have both in a chapter, I'll give a heads up. Later on down the road, there will be a chapter from Courfeyrac's perspective as he is the sole witness to a crucial event.
> 
> So, I guess you can expect the next chapter to be from Enjolras' perspective. 
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	2. Eyes on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras is captivated.

The first thing that hit Enjolras was the wave of sound from the already crowded bar. Why had he decided to come here again? The Musain was closer to his apartment, quieter, and he had less of a chance of being puked on. Oh, right: Feuilly and Bahorel. He whipped around at the two of them, who were madly trying and failing to stifle their laughter. Before he could yell at the two of them, however, the group was shoved inside. Giving up, Enjolras snagged a table large enough for the group up close to the stage. In fact, when he sat down he was almost directly across from the singer. Not that he cared, of course. Until the man began to sing.

“ _You let me violate you_

_You let me desecrate you_

_You let me penetrate you_ ,” he half-whispered, half-sang into the mic to the bass pounding like a heartbeat.  It was a beat that flowed over Enjolras and into his body, settling into a pressure in his lower abdomen. The singer, too, captivated him as he roared into the chorus. The scarred giant of a man was clearly into it as he gripped the mic, a wild black curl escaping from his ponytail. Enjolras was enchanted.

 “You okay there, E?” Combeferre asked, lightly touching his bicep to get his attention. Enjolras didn’t realize everyone else had already sat down. Seven pairs of eyes were looking at him curiously as he fumbled a bit for his words. Enjolras, who always had the last word, had been struck dumb.

“Um, yeah. Peachy. As for you two,” he snapped, looking pointedly at Bahorel and Feuilly, “what the hell were you thinking? It’s Jehan’s first night in America and you took him _here_?”

“Well,” Feuilly said, “he seems to be enjoying himself.” Indeed, Enjolras could see the lithe younger man bobbing his head in enthusiasm to the music. He couldn’t explain why the bar was making him so angry, but he was pissed off.

“How are we supposed to have our meeting?” Enjolras said, shouting a little to be heard over the positively sinful sounds the singer was making, “It’s too damn loud in here. Can we just go to the Musain?” Bahorel leaned towards him.

“Oh, lay off. It’s Feuilly’s first night off in what, a month? Let’s enjoy it. We can have our meeting tomorrow night.”

Enjolras sighed and nodded his head in agreement. How could he argue with that? Feuilly hardly had time to breathe with the amount of work he had to do to pay for his college courses and rent. Enjolras, as dedicated as he was to the allowance of transgender students into the dorms, couldn’t even argue with a night off from work and class.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’d kill for a beer right now,” Joly said, rising from the table, “Bos, come with me. Anyone else want anything?”

A robust chorus of agreement came Joly’s way. He and Bossuet went to go get the drinks; even Enjolras, who rarely drank, decided to allow himself a single bottle. After all, what harm could it do?

“If you ask me, Joly’s more interested in that girl over there,” Courfeyrac said. Enjolras watched Joly approach her with several bottles clasped in his hands; he offered her one and she took it. After apparently chatting for a few moments, he was already turning on his awkward charm and the girl was laughing. He handed all of the bottles, minus the ones he and the girl were drinking out of, to Bossuet, who was able to make it to the table without dropping one. It surprised Enjolras, as he was usually steadier after he’d had a few drinks poured down his throat. Bossuet took one of the six bottles and rejoined Joly and the girl.

Four of the bottles went out to Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bahorel and Feuilly, with one left for Enjolras and Jehan to apparently either split or fight over. Jehan looked at him and raised one ginger eyebrow at the drink.

“C’est, um, c’est une… oh hell, Bahorel, how do you say ‘beer’ in French?” Enjolras said. Jehan pressed back a grin at his fumbling for words.

“How the fuck should I know? I’m Mexican, not French at all,” Bahorel said.

“I just thought, well...” Enjolras said, fumbling for words yet again. Jehan, who had been close to silent all day, finally took pity on Enjolras and spoke up.

“I know c’est une bière, Enjolras. But, ehm, you have it,” Jehan said. Shit, his English was way better than Enjolras’ French. Enjolras decided that he had to study it more, if only to save his own dignity.

“Est-ce que vous voulez autre un verre?” Enjolras said, remembering perhaps the sole sentence he had memorized in high school French. Well, he did know two others, but neither was appropriate to use in casual conversation. Jehan nodded eagerly at Enjolras’ offer to get him another drink.  
                “I want, how do you say, a whiskey,” he said. They all turned to stare at the slender Frenchman who looked like he wouldn’t drink a regular beer, much less hard liquor. Bahorel shrugged and went to order him whiskey-on-the-rocks.

Without a distraction provided by being the Responsible Adult (which _should_ logically be Combeferre, but the man was a scattered wreck most of the time), Enjolras was again drawn in by the bar band. They were now doing a rendition of ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ and the singer was grinning like a maniac while he howled out Mick Jagger’s famous vocals. To distract himself from the growing warm feeling in the bottom of his belly, Enjolras tore his eyes away from the singer and focused on the bass player.

 The bassist was enthusiastic, at the very least. As he slammed out the chords, Enjolras could see him mouthing the vocals to himself and sort of bobbing up and down in time with the music. Though, his blues face was hilarious; he looked like an incredibly grouchy kitten. Enjolras wondered if the bassist knew that he didn’t have to make a face in order to play bass properly. Watching him got rather repetitive, so he moved to the drummer next.

The drummer was the most talented musician in the group, as Enjolras could see, keeping a perfect and steady beat under the others’ parts.  The drummer kept on glancing up at the singer in apparent vigilance. Had they not been playing together for long?

The guitarist stood in the shadowy back of the group, strumming his instrument. His face was masked in darkness and his long hair obscured his features. He did not move, not even to tap his foot. Overall, he was a rather boring distraction. Out of places to look, Enjolras allowed his gaze to fall back to the singer. Who just happened to be staring straight at him, dark eyes ablaze. The fire in Enjolras’ belly grew hotter and wilder until it stopped, making him look down at himself in surprise. He had gotten hard.

“E, are you sure you’re alright? You look a little flushed,” Combeferre said and polished off his second beer. He himself was by this point looking a bit red, Enjolras thought. He took a large gulp off his bottle before answering.

“Er, um, no, I’m fine,” Enjolras said in a strained voice, “I just, uh, need a bit of air.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, drink forgotten. He walked away from the smoldering gaze and pushed through the crowd, but not before he heard Courfeyrac say,

“Is it just me or was the singer eye-fucking Enjolras?”

Enjolras ignored him and continued to push his way out of The Corinth, hiding his raging erection under his coat as he pushed out. Out on the street, the hum of the Brooklyn nightlife hit him as he dodged into the alley next to the bar. He hoped he wouldn’t encounter a murderer there as he leaned against the brick wall and closed his eyes, breathing in the cold November air. He felt a few flakes of snow dust his face as he took deep breaths and tried to will his arousal away. No go.

He wiggled his arm out of his sleeve and next to his body, palming himself fervently through his trousers until he felt himself come. He stuck the other hand into his mouth to stifle a cry of ecstasy, sagging against the wall. There was no way he could go back inside the bar now; even if he hadn’t just come all over his trousers, the singer’s smoky gaze would undo him again.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, scrolled down to Combeferre’s contact icon and tapped it once.

**Think I’m getting the flu. Just puked in the alley so I’m going home. See u tomorrow. -E**

A reply came back within seconds.

**Oh no :( Stay safe. –Mothlord**

Mothlord? Either Combeferre had started hitting the whiskey with Jehan, or else Courf had stolen his phone. Likely the former, as Ferre tended to guard his electronics closer than he would nuclear launch codes. At least _he_ could still enjoy himself that night; Enjolras was not so fortunate.

He pocketed his phone and started for the nearest subway station, the one about a block away from The Corinth that the group had taken to get to the bar in the first place. He swore to himself that he would not go again, that he _could_ not go again.

Privately though, there was a stirring of _something_ deep inside that made him want to go back to the dim bar and never leave again. He would see the singer who had so affected him, and he would ask his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect a Grantaire chapter next!
> 
> I hope I've made the two POVs different enough to tell that they're two very different characters. Also, I am clearly not fluent in French. If any of the dialogue seems iffy to you, PLEASE correct me!
> 
> Hope this isn't moving too fast for you; things are going to be kinda slow for the next couple of chapters as I get the boys' shit together and establish their lives/personalities.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	3. Saviour and Scrubber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the night and Grantaire's morning.

Grantaire was sweating and hoarse by the time the last notes of the set faded away. By that time, as well, the bar had progressed past the roaring drunk stage into the almost quiet sounds of flirting, snoring, and occasional drunken laughter. The only bar patrons who really seemed to still be holding it together were a couple of black men around Grantaire’s age at the table in front of the stage. One, with a tipsy grin that threatened to cover his entire face, was overdramatically flirting with the other, a sleepy-looking man in glasses who was ignoring his advances as if he’d experienced them a million times before. The other two patrons at their table, two bro-types who were ripped like superheroes, were passed out on the scratched wooden table. Grantaire could’ve sworn that there had been more of them when he first saw them walk in two hours before.

He decided it wasn’t his business; the others had probably gotten lucky or gone home. Had the Angel found someone to share body warmth with that night? With that level of beauty, the Angel would have a long line of hopefuls, of all genders. Grantaire tried in vain to convince himself that he didn’t care. He finally got off the stage and walked through the packed bar, shoving past the tottering crowd. He needed to pee, and he needed to wash his face.

When he got to the men’s room, however, he was met with a horrific sight. A short, skinny man, hardly more than a boy, was backed into the corner near the two urinals. Two other men, one flabby and pimply, the other pinched and as leathery as beef jerky, were trapping him. They were yanking and grabbing toward him, laughing and jeering; they were telling him how much they wanted to bend him over, and wouldn’t it be easier if he made nice and complied? Sadly, this was a situation Grantaire had seen all too many times before and knew they wouldn’t stop until they were forced to.

“I think you’d better get the fuck out,”Grantaire said. He went up very close behind them, a towering 6’2 with a broad chest and arms. Grantaire wasn’t afraid to look hard when he needed to, though he tried to make himself as nonthreatening as possible in his daily life so he wouldn’t scare people. Leatherface looked him up and down and sneered at him from chest height.

“The fuck are _you_ gonna do about it? Thenardier won’t toss us out; we pay him well. Move along, pal.” Grantaire leaned down to their level and looked Leatherface directly in the eye.

“I’m a champion boxer and MMA fighter. I’ll give you one more chance to get the fuck out of here, then I start throwing punches.” Pimply grabbed Leatherface’s arm.

“Holy shit, man, fuck this. I’m out,” he said, and left the bathroom. Leatherface followed suit, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

 The skinny young man sagged against the wall and buried his face in his hands, as if all of the energy in his small body had gone out of him at once. Grantaire deflated as well, going back into his casual slouch. He approached the other with slow caution, as he would a frightened deer, and gently touched his shoulder. The man looked up and Grantaire could see his lower lip trembling slightly like he was trying his hardest to hold back tears. He didn’t judge him for it; hell, Grantaire had cried over less. Two giant strangers cornering him in a bathroom, though it was much harder to be physically imposing over him than the other man, would scare the hell out of him.

“Hey, man, you alright? You have someone out there or a phone or something?” Grantaire asked him, but the man looked like he had no idea what Grantaire was saying. Did he not speak English? Grantaire decided to ask him in as many languages as he could ask in, which was an impressive number from all of his years traveling with his parents.

“Usted habla ingles? Sprechen sie Englisch? Lei parla inglese? Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked, running down the list of obvious options. At the last question, the young man brightened and nodded his head, babbling in excited French. Grantaire had no idea what he was saying; his time in France had been a couple of months when he was twelve over a decade before and he didn’t exactly use his limited skill in his everyday life. At least the stranger spoke some English, so he could be a bit relieved. He held up his hand to stop the other, or at least slow him down.

“Um, you have… amis?” Grantaire asked, pointing to the noisy bar on the other side of the door.

“Oui, Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac. You sing, eh, bien,” the man said in a very heavy French accent. Oh, so he must’ve been sitting super close to the stage to be able to recognize him immediately. Though Grantaire was pretty distinctive-looking, he had seen at least three or four other men in that bar who could’ve been his clone from a way back. He wondered if the Frenchman had been with that large group right in front of him. Now that he thought about it, he might’ve seen him with them.

“Thanks, er, _merci_. Um, let’s go.” He started for the door and the young man followed him. Grantaire pushed out into the smoke-filled bar that was beginning to get loud again. There was music blaring through the sound system and everywhere there were people, food, and alcohol. This was an atmosphere Grantaire was well used to. They at last reached the stage again, where the ripped bros had woken up and were chatting with the slightly less drunk flirtatious table-mates. How long had Grantaire been gone? It felt like only a few minutes, but it could’ve been a half-hour or so by the way the bar had sprung to life again. He tapped the glasses-wearer on the shoulder. He looked up at him with as sober an expression as he could manage.

“Issss there a problem, officer?” he asked, blowing his cover of being the Responsible One. Great.

“Does this one belong to you? I found him in the bathroom,” Grantaire asked him. Glasses spotted the Frenchman and grinned broadly.

“Ah, Jehan, there you are. How- what’s wrong?” he cut himself off midsentence as Jehan, apparently the Frenchman, dropped into the nearest chair and started dry-heaving. Grantaire thought he was going to puke and made a move of pulling his long brown hair back when the tears started. He was ranting in his mother tongue, the words thickened by sobs. Glasses looked at Grantaire in abject confusion, eyes suddenly as sharp as those of a man who had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life.

“There were two assholes in the bathroom where I found him who were backing him into the corner and saying how they wanted to bend him over. You know, nasty shit like that. I don’t know what happened before I got in there and can’t ask him.”

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” the one next to Glasses said, “Combeferre, we should call someone. Are they still here?”

“No, I think I scared them off. Look, do any of you speak French?”  The crying was worsening as the man shook below his hand; he was tentatively patting him on the back.

“Why did Enjolras have to pussy out on us _now_?” the ripped dude with black hair said, “Literally none of the rest of us can understand a damn thing Jehan is saying.”

“Shut up, Bahorel, he didn’t pussy out. He’s sick ‘cuz he can’t hold his liquor, you know that,” the buff ginger next to him said.

If only to make the situation worse, Marius appeared next to them, laughing and holding a couple of beers.

“Grantaire, what the heck’s happening? We thought you might want a drink and a round of cards. Um, is he okay?” Marius asked at the sight of Jehan.

“Does he look fucking okay? He was assaulted in the bathroom and none of us speak French to ask him what the fuck happened,” Grantaire said, a note of panic in his voice. He had never been good under a lot of pressure, and he felt a strange sort of protectiveness over Jehan now.

“Est-ce vrai ce qui s'est passé dans les toilettes?” Marius asked Jehan. Well, Marius was certainly proving to be full of surprises. Jehan calmed down enough to explain to Marius what had happened in the bathroom; Grantaire understood a few words here and there. Marius listened carefully to the full story before turning to address the group.

“He said that he went into the bathroom, peed, washed his hands, and turned to leave. On his way out, two men came into the bathroom. At first, they thought he was a girl but as soon as they groped him they realized he wasn’t. They decided to go through with their plan anyway, blocked the door, and cornered him. They grabbed at his genitals and rear and tried to rip his clothes off. They shouted some things he didn’t understand but knew were lewd and awful. He held them off for about ten or so minutes before Grantaire showed up, threatened them, and they left. He says thank you and he thinks he’s okay for now.  C'est tout, Jehan?”

Jehan nodded in agreement and Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank God you ‘re fluent in French, I know like two words. Is the offer of a drink and cards still on the table?” Marius beamed

“Well, I took it all through middle school and high school because I thought it would make my Québécois grandfather like me more. It didn’t really help with that but, you know, it’s nice to speak it okay. Yeah, Johnny and ‘Sous are backstage dealing already. Come on.”

“See you guys later, I guess. Have a nice night,” Grantaire said, itching already for a bottle against his lips. It had been a rough night already and there was no way he’d be able to sleep after that, so a bit of relaxation wouldn’t hurt. He followed Marius backstage, where there was a tiny room with a cooler full of beers, a card table with four chairs, and a door that said ‘BATHROOM’.  Grantaire excused himself and went through the door into a bathroom no bigger than a broom closet. Once he had peed, flushed, and used some of the hand sanitizer inside, he rejoined the others for cards.

“You play blackjack?” Johnny asked him.

“Yeah. Stakes?” 

“Eh, doesn’t matter. We don’t play for money unless we’re playing the drunks outside, you feel?” Johnny handed Grantaire a beer. He twisted it open and finally, the sweet, familiar taste washed down his parched throat.

“Alright. Deal.”

That was the last thing Grantaire clearly remembered from that night when he woke up with a screaming headache and a dry throat at seven the next morning, alarm beeping into his ear. He vaguely recalled drinking, seeing the girl from earlier, and singing again, but he had no idea what had happened other than that. Had he actually managed to make it back to the motel he had checked into the previous morning, managed to get into his room, set an alarm, and pass out alone? Or, at least he hoped he had spent the night alone and didn’t bring someone back with him. As much as Grantaire loved sex, he hated having it whilst so drunk that he couldn’t remember it the next morning. If he had fucked someone the night before, they were long gone.

He slammed his fist on the top of the clock and stumbled to the shower, shedding his odorous clothes from the bar as he did so and letting down his curls. Under the steady pressure of the hot water, he was at last able to open his eyes all the way and yawned; it was way too early for being awake but he couldn’t afford to be late for his first day at the hospital. He performed his usual inspection after getting blackout drunk, first checking his arms for phone numbers, then his torso for bruises or cuts from fighting, then finally his dick to see if there was soreness from sex or any suspicious marks. To his surprise and relief, he found none of the above and upon closer inspection, his ass didn’t have any soreness from a guy he might’ve been with. A rare occasion, he had spent a drunken night without any consequences other than a hangover from Hell. He washed and conditioned his hair, washed his face and body, then got out. He wiped away the steam from the mirror and checked out his face, which showed no new bruises or cuts, just the usual scars and beard.

He brushed his hair back into a neat low ponytail, combed his beard into the best shape it could be, and left the bathroom. He took from his closet the scrubs he had been given the day before and put them on over his underwear and socks. He crossed the room, sat back on his bed and laced up his white tennis shoes. Grantaire groaned as he stood up, sleep still clinging to the edges of his brain. Coffee. He needed coffee. He put on his coat and left the motel, locking the door behind him.

The city was already awake and alive when he stepped out in the cold air onto the crowded street. Hadn’t he seen a Starbucks or something a block away? It was a bit out of his way, but it was as good as he was going to get in the unfamiliar world around him. Later that week, he decided, he would explore a little to better understand his surroundings. If he was only going to be in New York for a while, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy himself before getting antsy to leave again.

That’s how he chose to live his life, in constant motion. He never stayed in the same city for longer than a year, under six months most of the time. His dad had been military, so he had gotten used to temporary places and two-month friends. He followed the crowd down the sidewalk until he saw the green mermaid logo that marked America’s Favorite Coffee Shop, if the ads were to be believed.

The shop was not yet busy, so he was able to order a quick latte and a bagel. He waited to the side of the counter for them to call his name.

“Hammy? Latte for Hammy?” the barista called out. Grantaire sighed; this was why he never used his first name, Hamza. No one _ever_ pronounced any of his names correctly, but his last name was the least mangled most of the time. He took his order paid, leaving the shop. He headed to the nearest subway station and went downstairs.

He ate his food on the train, watching the mid-morning passengers, until he arrived at his stop near the hospital. He threw away the bagel bag and cup once he was back on the street and checked in at the receptionist’s desk. The heavyset woman with long ruby fingernails took his photo and printed him a hospital I.D. badge. She directed him to the third floor, where apparently he would find a bald man called Lesgles who would show him the ropes. He took the service elevator up and found aforementioned bald man mopping the floor, obviously sluggish and possibly hungover as well.

“Hey, are you Lesgles? I’m Grantaire, the new janitor,” Grantaire asked him. Lesgles straightened his back and turned, smiling.

“Oh, they said you’d be in today. Please, call me Bossuet, everyone else does. Wait, were you singing down at the Corinth last night? I saw you there, ‘til I left with Joly and that girl, Musichetta. Anyway, how are you?” All of this came flying at Grantaire without Bossuet pausing for breath.

“Erm, I’m good. Can you show me where the supply closet is? I’m supposed to be cleaning bedpans on this floor today.” Bossuet wrinkled his nose at the task.

“Ugh, I had to do that last week. Not a nice job at all. Well, none of this is, but law school doesn’t pay the bills, does it? Supply closet’s back there, and you’ll want a mask, gloves, scouring powder, and a scrub brush. Take a cart to put the pans on, then to the laundry room down in the basement to clean them. Spray on the disinfectant you’ll find down there and bring them back up as quickly as possible. Lunch is at noon, the cafeteria is up one floor and to your left. You can eat with me and meet Joly, okay? Got it all?” Grantaire held up a finger and processed all the information that had just been thrown at him. Okay, closet, pans, basement, scrubbing, pans back up, lunch at noon on the floor upstairs. He had it.

“Yup, got it. See you at noon, I guess.” Bossuet went back to whistling a jaunty tune and mopping the hallway. Grantaire could already tell that he was going to like this odd man once he got used to his rapid-fire speech and cheery manner.

He went to the supply closet and got out the necessary supplies, ready for the grueling day ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter was so late and long, but I hope you liked it. Expect an Enjolras chapter next, which will take place a few days after the events of this chapter. As usual, if I've screwed up the French, tell me in the comments.
> 
>  Special thanks to Lady_Opal (Mihochan25) for helping with what Marius says in French.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	4. The First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras runs a meeting and learns that he doesn't know everything.

“Hey, E, where’s the meeting tonight?” Bahorel’s voice asked down. Enjolras looked up from his Law Theory book at him, bewildered. Meeting? What meeting?

“It’s Tuesday. We don’t meet on Tuesdays,” Enjolras replied. Bahorel frowned at him and lowered his Ray Bans ever so slightly.

“Actually, it’s Wednesday, oh fearless leader, but thanks for assuming that I don’t know my days of the week. Seriously, though, where’s the meeting? I think they’re still revving the Musain.” Enjolras groaned and flopped face down on his book, blonde curls tumbling over his forehead. How had he forgotten about the meeting? Or even the day? God, he thought he had another day to get his shit together, and a certain singer out of his head, before preparing the presentation on campus transgender housing rights for the group to review. They had an appointment with the school board the next month, so Enjolras wanted plenty of time to make the group’s presentation the best it could be; with the hardest evidence possible that opening up the dorms to transgender students was a viable option, the notoriously conservative school board just might have a change of heart. He picked up his head and rested his chin on his hand.

“They finished the Musain renovation on Monday, I think, or was it Sunday? Anyway, the meeting will be there but at eight instead of six, okay?” Enjolras said, assuming the Fearless Leader stance that he was so accustomed to. He could do it, he reassured himself, it was only noon so he had a good eight hours to put the presentation together.

“Not gonna happen, buddy. Feuilly works at the barbecue at eight tonight and he’s going to be in enough trouble with job numero uno as it is since he took the afternoon off of selling ballet tickets,” Bahorel said. Enjolras started knocking his head against the table, trying not to disturb that wizened library crone, Mrs. Critchlow, with her glares and hissing. How many damn jobs did Feuilly work? There were his days spent in the Lumiere Theater, selling tickets to the ballet, his night job, dishwashing at Wild Wild West Barbecue, and the graveyard shift at Big John’s Male Revue. Between those, his class schedule, and basic human needs like sleeping and eating, Feuilly was rarely seen by anyone except for Bahorel, his roommate.

“Can’t we do it without him?” Enjolras pleaded.

“Dude, it’s his cause! Directly affecting him! It’s the reason he works three jobs, Enjolras!” Bahorel was getting louder and more passionate now, and Enjolras was desperately trying to shush him.

“Yes, I know, but-“

“No buts! If I wanted buts, I’d visit Feuilly at the club. This is his life!. You don’t see how much it’s killing him! Have you seen the dark circles? Him falling asleep in the middle of a conversation?  The anxiety attacks when he can’t scrape together enough to pay his half of the rent, which he’s too damn stubborn to just let me pay? He’d be less of wreck if they’d just let him into a dorm room like everyone else so he wouldn’t have to pay rent every month! You _do not_ get to talk over him, Enjolras.” Bahorel was breathing hard after his outburst and everyone in the near vicinity was staring at the two of them. Enjolras felt like a total jerk. He had no idea of all that Feuilly went through on a daily basis, even with Bahorel discreetly shifting more of the rent payment to his own responsibility to ease Feuilly’s burden. Enjolras grabbed his school bag, pushed back his chair, and left the library, Bahorel in tow. He led them to the far corner of the student lounge, where there was less of a chance of disturbing anyone hard at work.

“Okay, six then. Meet in the Musain, back room. Does Feuilly have his speech ready?” he asked. Bahorel was right; Enjolras had no right to talk about an issue not affecting him when they had a genuine transgender person in their midst who knew better. Feuilly was almost impossible to schedule, so they needed to make the most of whatever time they had with him. If the school board agreed to their proposal, Feuilly could quit one of his jobs and actually have extra money. Feuilly claimed that he had major debts to pay back, which Bahorel hotly refused and said that the surgery should be free of charge anyway, so why not just drop it? Enjolras never could pick a side. On one hand, he could sort of see that Feuilly was uncomfortable with people spending money on him, that it made him feel like a charity case rather than a friend. On the other hand, he could see that Bahorel was doing everything out of his own kind spirit; money never was a big deal to him, so why not share the love with his friends?

“We ran through it yesterday, just under a half hour long. Is that okay? He thought it’d get boring if he went on any longer than that,” Bahorel said, his good nature back as soon as he had a change of scenery and a chance to calm down. Enjolras couldn’t count the number of times that Bahorel had been in an all-out brawl, only to be pleasantly swapping cake recipes with the old ladies in the hospital waiting room a scant hour after his friends had pulled him from the fight.

“That should be perfect, since the debriefing should run about that length as well. Combeferre said to keep the entire thing within an hour, or the school board will lose interest. I’ll try to keep the presentation short and to the point because if we start waffling, we’re done and they’ll never listen to us again,” Enjolras said, absentmindedly fiddling with a stray curl. His intensity, his passion for Les Amis de L’ABC, was entering his heart again. As the group’s leader and founder, he could not allow himself to get distracted from the goal or flake out. He needed to pull himself together.

“Great, man. Look, I’ve gotta run. Teaching that Kiddie Boxing Class today, gonna really show them how to fight,” Bahorel said, grinning, “See you at six!”

And just like that, Enjolras was alone. He pulled his laptop out of his schoolbag, sat down in one of the squashy armchairs, and woke it up. He cracked his neck and began to write the proposal for the school board.

When he looked up from the finished Powerpoint, it was 5:30 p.m. and the sun was almost touching the horizon outside the west window. Enjolras saved his work and stretched because really, he had been sitting for quite a long time and his back was starting to hurt. His stomach rumbled like an angry whale and he wondered if the Musain sold sandwiches. Well, the only way he was going to find out would be at the meeting, so he took his stuff and left the building, heading straight for the popular coffee house on the edge of the campus.

The Musain was the way it always was when he pushed open the door, alive with chatter and smelling like coffee and cinnamon.  Enjolras noted the new green walls and tables shaped like oak leaves, and the new plant-themed decorations. Enjolras felt like a cardinal in a forest. Even the counter had been redone in a woodland theme, decorated with a mural of a herd of deer. The owner, a quite muscular man for being around sixty or so, was bringing out a fresh tray of muffins to put in the new glass display case. His daughter, a blonde girl who could’ve been Enjolras’ identical twin, was making lattes for Joly, Bossuet, and a strange girl who was holding their hands. Hold up, was that the girl from The Corinth? Things must have gone well for the pair of them if she decided to stick around after they had whatever it was that they had. Enjolras didn’t pry and was afforded the same courtesy, which was a nice gesture even if he didn’t exactly live a scandalous life. Valjean, the owner, looked up from his poppy seed muffins at Enjolras and gave him a nod that it was okay to set up in the back room.

The back room was the same as Enjolras had left it. This alone was the part of the Musain that Valjean wasn’t planning to redecorate. The week before, Enjolras had asked if he needed to clear out the club’s stuff so that the room could be repainted, but Valjean had promptly told him no. It was just a storage unit, Enjolras remembered Valjean telling him, and that “you boys are the only ones who ever want to use this room anyway. You can decorate it yourselves, if you want.” He had then given Enjolras a strudel and sent him on his way. Valjean was like everyone’s grandma; with the amount of food that he just gave away, it was a wonder how he made any sort of a profit.

Enjolras began setting up the projector. It was an old thing, at least twenty years old, but Combeferre was like a technology wizard and had figured out how to make it hook up to a laptop. Its main selling point was that it was that it was officially portable, though it was so heavy that Enjolras’ muscles strained as he heaved it up on the table. It turned on with a whirring groan and Enjolras attached it to his laptop. Now, with ten minutes to spare, all he had to do was get everyone inside.

At six o’clock, the seven members of Les Amis de L’ABC plus Joly and Bossuet’s friend and Cosette, the barista, were seated around the polished wood table. A pitiful number, Enjolras thought, there was room for at least twenty others. Perhaps if the club made a positive difference, more students would be inclined to join.

“Alright, everyone, settle down,” Enjolras called, making the murmuring die down immediately, “Let’s get started. Today’s Agenda: running through the presentation for the school board on housing for transgender students, Feuilly’s spiel, and then time for questions and suggestions. Minutes are being taken by Courfeyrac, as usual, so get notes if you need them from him. Now, transgender students, meaning those who identify as a gender other than the one they were assigned at birth…”

As he talked and flipped through the first ten slides about transgender discrimination and demographics, his fellows listened with righteous anger at the way the students were treated by the school.

“Now, on a poll taken in October, almost two percent of students surveyed identified as transgender, and none of them have stable on-campus hou-“ Enjolras was momentarily taken aback by the arrival of three new people. One was Jehan, who he expected much earlier, an awkward man whom was talking with Jehan in French, and That Guy, the singer who had so undone him several days before. What was _he_ doing here?

“Grantaire, you made it!” Joly cried out, “There’s a chair over here!” That Guy, whose name apparently was Grantaire, took the seat to the right of Joly. He gave Enjolras a nod in greeting and Enjolras was a bit offended that he didn’t talk to him.  Jehan sat next to Cosette, who admittedly was the most harmless-looking of the assembled group. The awkward man, Jehan’s friend, came up to Enjolras to introduce himself.

“Hi, I’m Marius Pontmercy,” the man said, sticking out his hand, “Um, Jehan asked me if I would come with him and translate the meeting because he wants to know what’s going on. If you’re planning to kill someone or something, I promise not to tell.” Enjolras shook his hand, baffled yet charmed by this stranger’s sweet and somewhat innocent demeanor. After Enjolras had reassured him that they weren't planning to commit murder, a relieved Marius sat next to Jehan and looked down at his hands whenever Cosette tried to talk to him. Enjolras went back to his presentation, and ten minutes later, Feuilly took the floor.

“My name is Alexander Feuilly, I’m twenty-six years old, and I was assigned female at birth. I came out at seventeen and starting transitioning to male at nineteen. In my three years at this school as a scholarship Civil Engineering student, taking my Bachelor’s a few credits at a time since I cannot afford to hold a full class schedule, I have never been allowed to live in a dorm. Allowing me, and the rest of the transgender student community, to live in a dorm would ease this terrible financial burden as it is less expensive to pay room and board at the school than it is to pay half of the rent on an apartment anywhere in this city. Much of this school’s transgender community goes days without food and winters without heat because all of the money for those things goes directly into paying rent.  I was in foster care in the Bronx from age four to age eighteen, so I do not come from a rich family.  Many of the transgender students at our university are in the same dire financial situation as I am.  I work three jobs to pay for my rent and medication. If not for the charity of my friends and local soup kitchens, I would have starved to death by now.

“Affording us the same dignity that other students receive will not harm anyone. Despite what popular media will tell you, a transgender individual is not more likely to assault their roommate than anyone else. We don’t want to trick our roommates or rape them, we just want somewhere to sleep that will allow us to breathe for a while. If we are given this right, the right to affordable housing and food, many of us will be better and more productive students to better benefit the school as a whole. We aren’t here to hurt you, we’re here to study and grow as people. Please consider our proposition to help your students. Thank you.”

Feuilly sat back down and you could’ve heard a pin drop.  Enjolras looked around the room, his eyes blurred with tears by Feuilly’s moving speech, and saw that there wasn’t a dry eye even from the new people who had never met Feuilly before in their lives. Marius, his voice thick, was translating at lightning speed for Jehan, whose tears were falling thick and fast. Grantaire was quietly weeping and patting Bahorel on the back. Nobody else seemed likely to speak, so Enjolras took the reins, playing the leader once again.

“A-any questions? Suggestions?” he asked the group, trying and failing to smile. He had picked up that Feuilly was worn down by life, but until he heard it from Feuilly’s own lips, he never could’ve guessed how badly his friend was suffering.

“They won’t be able to say no,” Combeferre said, “It’s just not right.” Enjolras nodded; no, it wasn’t right at all. The school board would _have_ to say yes.

“All the other schools around here allow trans students into the dorms,” Cosette put in, “So, in your presentation, maybe you could say how bad this makes our university look, Enjolras.” This was a sparkling suggestion, how had he not thought of it? He made a note to add it to his slideshow.

“I’ve gotta get going to the barbecue,” Feuilly said, rising to leave, “So if everything’s okay with my speech, I’ll see you sometime, I guess.”

Once he was gone, the meeting dissolved as per usual. Joly and Bossuet introduced Enjolras and the others to their new friend, Musichetta, who was knowledgeable about minority treatment in the student community. Enjolras decided he liked her immediately and asked her to come to more meetings. Marius turned out to be very kind and intelligent once you got past his five layers of shyness and Courfeyrac took him under his wing like a lost baby bird, though Marius seemed like he’d rather introduce himself to Cosette.

“Nice meeting, Angel,” he heard a smooth voice behind him say. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck prickling as he turned around. Was he being a jerk or just mispronouncing Enjolras’ name? He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“It’s Enjolras, actually, but that’s an easy mistake to make. Glad you could make it, are you a student here?” Enjolras asked, his Leader Mode engaging as he pushed down his excitement at being talked to first.

“I’m a bar singer, actually, but that’s an easy mistake to make,” Grantaire said, pressing back a wide grin. Oh, so he was one of _those_ people. Well, Enjolras was raised to be polite, so that’s what Grantaire was going to get.

“Yes, I believe I saw you at the Corinth the other night. If you aren’t a student, what _are_ you doing here?” Grantaire pressed his hand over heart, an exaggerated expression of mock horror painting his face.

“I am offended, can only students be interested in bettering our community, or something?” Grantaire asked, his voice light, teasing. And hot. Really hot.

“Come on, this is a club for students, primarily about student issues. ‘Fess up,” Enjolras said. Two could play at this game.

“Okay, okay, Joly and Bos said they had a club to be at tonight. See, I thought they meant a dance club, which was surprising because of Joly’s cane, but then they turned up here anyway. Nice to see all these guys again after the assault on Saturday,” Grantaire said. Something clicked inside Enjolras’ brain,

“Oh, yes, you were the one who chased off those guys! Thanks for that, I can’t believe he had to go through that on his first night here.”

“Well, I would’ve done it for anyone. Marius is pretty handy, isn’t he, with his speaking French and all? I’ve only known him for a few days, but I think it’s good that he’s met someone,” Grantaire looked down at his watch, “Oh shit, I’ve gotta go. My shift at the bar starts in an hour and I have to get home and change. Send Marius on his way once he’s done flirting, would you?” Grantaire turned to leave and Enjolras could feel his opportunity slipping away as he stood there, tongue-tied.

“Wait!” he called, finding his courage again, “This is going to sound weird, but can I have your number?” Grinning,  Grantaire whipped a Sharpie out of his back pocket and scribbled a number on Enjolras’ forearm.

“See you around, Angel,” Grantaire said. He left and Enjolras was more charmed than irritated. For a little while, at least, he could bask in the glow of successful flirtation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this is late! My Word Document kept on shutting down yesterday and I couldn't finish the damn ending until today. This one has a different tone than the rest of the story, but I promise they'll be back in the bar soon and the pace will pick back up. As usual, you can expect the next chapter about Grantaire next Saturday. Thanks for reading thus far!
> 
> Reminder: if you have any questions or comments about the story, my tumblr URL is @the-devils-dandy and the tag for story notes about updates and potential delays is #hate me exr.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	5. Bad Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes text and Grantaire reflects.

Grantaire was celebrating his promotion from Bedpan Scrubber, one of the grossest jobs he’d ever had, to Morgue Mopper when his phone buzzed with a text. He set down his forkful of canteen spaghetti that bore a striking resemblance to the blobs of congealed blood that he’d mopped up earlier and checked the message out. It was a simple ‘Hey’ from an unknown number. Who could it be? Floreal? She hadn’t contacted him in two years, so it wasn’t likely. He tapped out a reply.

 **Who is this?**  

After a few minutes, in which time he almost had convinced himself that his lunch looked appetizing, his phone buzzed again.

**Um, this is Enjolras. We met the other night in the Café Musain and you gave me your number. –E**

Grantaire grinned, all thoughts of lunch gone. He stood up from his solitary table, Joly and Bossuet working a different shift for the week, and tossed out his spaghetti. His phone told him that he still had ten minutes before he had to return to the morgue, where he would likely find a huge job to clean up. Mopping out the morgue was about on the same level of ick as scrubbing out bedpans, but it was at least more interesting. He had already cleaned up after four autopsies, each job taking him almost an hour to do. At least he only had to clean up one person’s bodily fluids in the hour as opposed to a dozen or so. He found a quiet spot around the corner from the hospital canteen and leaned against the wall.

**Dude, seriously, a week? Beginning to think that I gave out my number for nothing –R**

This reply came after a few minutes.

**How dare you pun me with your name? How dare. Kidding, lol. Was kind of nervous that you wouldn’t remember me tbh. –E**

He caught the pun? Barely anyone ever did. Grantaire was impressed, in spite of himself. He was also surprised that Enjolras thought he was so forgettable when he was perhaps the most beautiful person that Grantaire had ever seen. That golden hair, that flawless dark skin, that dazzling smile, these were things that Grantaire would never forget.

**You’re pretty distinctive and you really shouldn’t have been nervous. Anyway, what’s up? –R**

The clock on Grantaire’s phone told him he had less than five minutes left before he had to go back to the morgue. Would Enjolras hurry it up a little? It was like texting a sloth.

**Watching my friend Combeferre try to eat an entire pizza because my other friend Courfeyrac bet him 20 bucks that he couldn’t. I’m disgusted yet intrigued. –E**

Grantaire pictured rail-thin Combeferre and shuddered.

**What the hell? Where does it all GO??? –R**

Two minutes left. But he was enjoying himself!

**Never underestimate how much food Ferre can put away. He’s like a bottomless pit and oh my god he only has three slices left. -E**

It was time. Grantaire texted a quick note that he had to go back to work and to keep him updated, pocketing his phone once he was done. He would text Enjolras later, he decided, but whatever he was doing wasn’t worth getting fired over. All that waited for him was a mop and a morgue until six pm, when his shift as a janitor ended and he had a couple of hours to be himself again before he went to the bar.

He knew that he was lying to himself, couldn’t even remember what he even did before The Incident that destroyed whatever world he lived in, the world he was building for himself that came crashing down seven years before. But no, he chose not to think about it, which was the absolute worst part of his job: it was so monotonous that it made it hard to focus on the work he was doing and left him time to poke at the bad things deep inside. His phone, thankfully, was in his pants pocket. He popped in his earbuds and let the music drown out his memories.

It was six o’clock when Grantaire punched out of his shift and changed back into his regular clothes. He figured that he had just enough time to get home, wash of the hospital stench, eat something, and sleep for a while before he had to get to the Corinth. It was a routine that left little time for hobbies, but it suited him. Besides, he could always go to the gym or to a museum or something on Sundays, which he had totally free. Well, he told himself that in every city, at every single job, but he usually spent those free days asleep.

When he finally checked his text messages, he had four from Enjolras. The man had zero chill.

**Okay. –E**

**Are you off yet??? –E**

**How about now? –E**

**Okay just text me when you’re done. Wanna play 20 questions? –E**

Now _that_ was a game that Grantaire had played many times with many people. Usually, it devolved into kinky shit about 10 questions in. He texted back, weaving around an old couple on the sidewalk.

**Sure. You first. –R**

It was a minute or two before Enjolras’ reply came back. By that point, he was on his way down the stairs to the subway.

**Um, okay. What’s your first name? –E**

That was surprisingly cute.Grantaire smiled to himself as he stood on the train and tapped out his reply.

**Hamza. Pronounced HAM-zuh. But I prefer to go by my last name. –R**

The reply came back only a second later. Enjolras must have had his phone out and waiting.

**Mine’s Julien. Which I hate, by the way. Come to think of it, I don’t think a single one of my friends goes by their first name. Your turn. –E**

Julien. Okay, Grantaire committed the name he would never use to memory. What do you ask someone that you barely even know? ‘Where are you from?’ would be the usual question, but Grantaire knew how irritating it could be, as if you weren’t really American at all.

**What does your club’s name mean? I don’t speak French very well. –R**

Good, good, ask him about something he was in to. Grantaire wondered what he thought he was doing. He was a temporary person, what if Enjolras asked super personal questions, the one he didn’t even have an answer to? Grantaire hoped that Enjolras would either keep the questions PG or NC-17; he didn’t feel up to dealing with real emotional shit. He arrived at his stop. He got off the train and started his walk back to his motel room, wondering why Enjolras had not replied.

**It means ‘The Friends of the ABC’. Like, ABC is pronounced the same as abbaisé in French, which means ‘the unfortunate’. It’s a stupid pun and a lot of people think we’re a club for the love of French Culture. That’s how we met Jehan, actually. –E**

What was with these people and puns? Grantaire appreciated it, though Jehan must have been super confused when he showed up there and only one person spoke French.  He kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of his rented bed.

**Puns. All of you are nothing but puns! Okay, your turn. –R**

He leaned back on his bed. Would Enjolras be offended if he stopped the questions for a while so he could shower? He decided that he could go for a few more minutes, ignoring the smell of blood and cleaning fluid on his clothes as well as the rumbling in his stomach. Maybe Thenardier would give him free food at the bar, or at least free booze.

**How do you know Joly and Bossuet? I noticed you guys knew each other at the meeting. –E**

Again, simple questions that were easy to answer.  It was a nice change from constant question bombardment. He had had enough of that when he went through those awful weeks of police interrogation those many years ago.

**We’re all at the hospital together. Bossuet is my fellow janitor-at-arms and Joly’s attached to him so yeah.  Okay, I have one: how old are you? –R**

He was so tired, hungry, and smelly but was having too much fun to go and take care of himself. Enjolras was one of those people that could have been anywhere from eighteen to thirty and Grantaire wanted to check that he wasn’t a teenager fresh out of school. He was too old to deal with barely-legal  people.

**Turned 24 last June. And you? –E**

A short reply. Grantaire hoped that he didn’t piss him off already. He could feel his heart beating faster the longer he laid on the bed without cleaning up.

**27 last month. I’m practically a fossil.-R**

He was so uncomfortable by this time that it felt like his skin was crawling. He was going to have to cut the game short; if he didn’t get the hospital smell off of him right now than he was going to utterly freak the fuck out. Why had he taken a job as a hospital janitor, again? He hated hospitals, hated the smell. It didn’t bother him much while he was at work, but as the smell permeated his regular life, his stomach flipped over and he wanted to scream. Blood and the smell always triggered terrible memories of The Incident and the months that followed, memories that Grantaire would rather forget. He didn’t wait for Enjolras to reply before texting again.

**Look I need to take a shower now. I’ll talk to you later. –R**

He set his phone down on the nightstand and almost leaped up. He peeled off his clothes and walked, naked, to the bathroom. After he had turned on the shower, he took down his hair and didn’t bother brushing it out before he got in. What if the smell clung to his hairbrush? Grantaire knew that he was being irrational, but he didn’t want to press his luck.

He scrubbed all over his body with the bar of motel soap, taking special care on his face, the hair on his chest and arms, and especially his hands. His hands that he seemed to be washing constantly. It’s not your fault, that insidious little voice inside his head told him, it was a part of daily prayers as a kid and you never broke the habit, did you? He wished it away as he worked shampoo through his hair and beard. He’d gotten pretty good at ignoring that little voice in his waking hours during the day, but it still snaked through his dreams, telling him that he needed to sack up and face what happened when he was twenty, a lifetime ago. But that wasn’t how Grantaire operated. He shut off the shower.

Wiping the fog from the mirror, he stared into his own shadowed-rimmed brown eyes and thought that he looked pretty bad. He needed to sleep more, eat more, and probably drink less, he thought. Not that he was actually going to do any of those things, of course. He went back to his main room and got out new jeans and black Rolling Stones tank top. The bar was so hot inside that anything more than that would be unbearable; besides, the shred of vanity he had left told him that his biceps looked really good in that shirt. He sat back down on his bed and laced up his boots that made him look even bigger than usual. He still had an hour left before he had to be at the bar, but he was hungry so he thought he’d get there early. The food at the Corinth wasn’t half bad, or at least no worse than most shitty bar food. Yes, that was what he’d do. He checked his phone again for the time before heading out and noticed another three texts from Enjolras.

**Okay, have fun I guess.-E**

**Are you at singing tonight at the Corinth? Couple of my friends want to go for a drink. –E**

**Just text me back once you’re out. –E**

Grantaire texted back that yes, he was singing that night and would meet him at the bar. It was a nice change to have someone interested in his comings and goings. After so long of having his phone ringing for the sole purpose of new job interviews, it made him warm inside to know that a real person was actively taking an interest in him. He was on Cloud Nine until he got to the Corinth, when a set of hands pulled him into the tiny alley and pressed him up against the wall. Every panic sense he had kicked in and he blindly flailed out and up, missing his captor by a fraction of an inch. When his vision cleared, he saw in the clear moonlight that it was only Enjolras and his heart slowed down, then sped up again as he realized what a compromising position they were in.

“Fucking why?” Grantaire struggled out. The alley was rather narrow anyway and neither of them were exactly small men. In this close proximity, he could hear Enjolras’ ragged breathing as well of the sound of his own thumping heartbeat. Had he fallen asleep back in his room? Was he now dreaming?

“Because I’ve wanted to do this,” Enjolras half-whispered, tilting Grantaire’s chin upwards. Grantaire accepted Enjolras’ beautiful mouth as it met his and it was like he had never seen the sky before. Every nerve in his body, from his ebony hair to the tips of his boots was on fire as they kissed in that cramped, dirty alley behind a closed bar.

Grantaire took the initiative to deepen the kiss until Enjolras’ lithe body was pressed as tightly as possible against his own. He twisted his hands into those soft blonde curls, noting the way the slight tug made Enjolras moan into his mouth. He was acutely aware of the hardness, from both of them, pressing against his thigh and he realized that he had never wanted anyone as badly as he wanted Enjolras, right here, right now. But duty calls, and he had to be the one to break the kiss.

“I have to go now, okay?” he said, taking in Enjolras’ confusion and slight irritation.

“Aw, do you really have to go in there? Wouldn’t it be more fun to just stay out here?” Enjolras teased, pressing back against Grantaire. He was so, so tempted to say “Fuck Employment” and take Enjolras to his knees.

“Meet me out here during my set break. Can you wait two hours, Angel?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras nodded. Grantaire kissed him quickly again and left him there to compose himself. He walked into the bar, shutting out all thoughts of Enjolras for the time being if only to get his erection to go away.

He went behind the bar and nabbed a burger, a beer, and a couple of whiskey shots from Thenardier, who seemed to know exactly what he had just been doing. He had given Grantaire a knowing wink as he handed over his food. As he ate, he leeched all thoughts of the outside world from his brain and let himself be lost in the atmosphere of the empty bar, waiting for the band to arrive so they could get ready to put on another show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is going to be the chapter that makes or breaks a lot of my readership, but I promise I have a plan! As usual, expect an Enjolras chapter next week. You can probably guess what happens...
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	6. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bar is hot, the bar is steamy, and the bathroom is a volcano.

Enjolras sat at the bar, his bottle untouched as he listened to the music from the distant stage. Why had he even bought a drink? He detested alcohol, hated the way it made him feel sick and dizzy. The only kind he could solidly handle was wine and maybe a single beer if he had eaten something beforehand. Courfeyrac teased him about having the tolerance of a fourteen year old girl, but stopped as soon as he noticed Enjolras was uncomfortable; none of his other friends pressured him to drink at parties or anything. He didn’t touch a drop unless he was in a place where it would seem odd that he wasn’t. So when he showed up at the Corinth, he bought a beer.

He didn’t need the drink to feel drunk. The hot, sweet kiss in the alleyway had gone straight to his bloodstream, making him lightheaded and lusty. After all, why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? It was a rare occasion where he found anyone that made him hunger for the rough touch of sex and the cloyingly sweet sensation of desire. It had been two years, in fact, since he last felt the strong pull of sexual _need_. Now that he was forced to wait to fill that animal sense, it grew by the second until an hour into the set, Enjolras was about to rush the stage and pull Grantaire into the bathroom. 

Under the cover of darkness, in the crowded bar, Enjolras became someone else. No longer the Fearless Leader, no longer a law student, no longer chaste and reserved. When he was so far removed from his world of light and day, Enjolras became just another man seeking a fix of a certain kind. He enjoyed being in charge as a model citizen, in his defense, but sometimes it was as if he was on a pedestal far above the ground where he could crash to Earth at any second and the world would see a breakable human instead of a perfect machine. He liked being in a place where no one knew him, where no one would question his tactile desires, where he could feel human.

“Hey, darlin’, see anything you like?” a rough female voice said, snapping Enjolras out of his daydream. She was so young that Enjolras doubted that she was there legally, dressed in an outfit made of little more than two strips of black leather to cover her breasts and genitals. Her ribs and hipbones protruded almost grotesquely from under her translucent white skin and she seemed about to fall off of her platform heels. Enjolras wanted to wrap her in a blanket and feed her, get her out of the bar before she collapsed.

“Er, not unless you can get the lead singer to leave the stage right now,” Enjolras said. Her icy blue eyes widened in understanding before she laughed, tossing back her long black hair

“What, Grantaire? Aw, he’s a sweetie. Don’t think he’s into dudes though, you’d have better luck trying the Old Bailey down the street if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Enjolras cleared his throat.

“I have a good reason to doubt that, sorry, what was your name? I don’t think I caught it,” Enjolras said. The laughter behind the girl’s eyes died at the question.

“It’s Eponine. Eponine Thenardier,” she said, cringing at the last name. Wasn’t Thenardier the man who owned the Corinth? Enjolras vaguely remembered Bahorel mentioning the name when they were entering that first night. If this girl was the owner’s daughter, this was truly a fucked up situation in every sense of the word.

“Enjolras. Julien Enjolras. Eponine, if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?” Enjolras asked, keeping his tone as even as he could. Even in the place where he became someone else, he was still a fighter for those in need. Eponine backed off from him and shook her head.

“I’m just gonna go now, ‘kay? There’s other tables that need tending to,” she said. He could tell that the question had set her on guard.

“If you ever need anything, I don’t know, a place to stay or something, Grantaire can give you my number,” Enjolras said to her retreating back.

He spotted another girl in a similar getup cozying up to a table full of men clad in full biker gear. She looked even younger than Eponine, barely even in her teens. Enjolras hoped that they were just young looking, but he didn’t believe it. What were two people as nice as Marius and Grantaire doing working in a place like this?

Was Grantaire nice? Enjolras realized that he didn’t actually know. He had only met him on one other occasion and now, well, now he was preparing to do something either very brave or very stupid the minute Grantaire walked off of the stage. He decided that he could sort out their personalities later; tonight, his body was all that mattered. He leaned on his elbows and allowed himself to get lost in the music once more, his body throbbing hotter and hotter as the set went on. He watched Grantaire grip the mic in the most suggestive of ways, afraid to move closer lest he burn from the inside out. Only a half an hour before he could find some relief from the warmth that filled his body and tugged uncomfortably at his groin. Despite his reservations, he cracked open his bottle and took a sip of the foul liquid within. He grimaced and put it down; he really did despise that sting.

The room broke into a round of drunken cheering as the set ended and the last notes faded away. Enjolras’ heart started skipping like a broken CD as the band gave a last roar and exited the stage. It was time, time to give in to his need and lose himself. He watched Grantaire wipe his brow with the his shirt, exposing a flash of tan belly, and saunter over to the bar. He sat next to Enjolras and ordered a beer. He took a swig, making a satisfied noise in the back of his throat at the cold taste. Enjolras decided he had waited long enough, thank you very much, and if he didn’t get them into the bathroom now then they’d become indecent right there in public.

“Bathroom?” Grantaire asked him once he’d taken another swallow. He lazily traced his scarred fingers up Enjolras’ thigh, making him shut his eyes and shiver with hypersensitivity. He nodded and, leaving their nearly full bottles on the bar, made their way to the “private” bathroom. It was thankfully empty and Grantaire turned the lock.

Enjolras was pushed roughly against the wall, kissing Grantaire like he was a drowning man and Grantaire held the only oxygen in the world. The fire inside him grew into a raging inferno and he wrapped his long legs around Grantaires muscled waist, giving a tiny moan as his erection was jostled by the motion. He felt the pull at the back of his curls and was nearly undone; he broke the kiss and slid down the tiled green wall, tugging at the zipper on Grantaire’s jeans. He looked up for indication that he should go farther and Grantaire gave him a quick nod and sigh, hand still in Enjolras’ hair.

Enjolras jerked down Grantaire’s jeans and boxers and there he was, exposed and throbbing. He took a second to relish in the sight, then began his ministrations. He started the way he always did, running his tongue up and down the length of the shaft, taking care on the underside. The sounds Grantaire was making, low groans, were encouraging, so he took it one step beyond. He circled around the head, never touching it but teasing the pleasure out little by little. Finally, when his partner was almost whimpering and the precum was starting to shine on the tip, he took it into his mouth. Grantaire let out a sharp gasp and Enjolras smiled around his cock. He sucked it slowly and deliberately, deepthroating it the way he had taught himself to, met by a rousing chorus of want from Grantaire’s lips.

Five minutes later, he felt the warm liquid running down his throat; he swallowed it all and stood back up, one pale eyebrow raised. Grantaire understood and got down on his knees in the same manner. Enjolras’ neat trousers and crimson underwear were around his ankles in a second. In another, a warm mouth was doing as he had, licking, sucking, and kissing down his own cock. The sudden slight lovebite near the base made him weak at the knees, a sensation that he had never had before but found out at that instant that it was one that he liked. He knew that he wasn’t even making coherent sounds, just begging for more in moans and jerks. When he thought he couldn’t take a moment longer of the tease, he was sucked hard and fast like his soul was being yanked out through his member. He saw stars and after he felt himself come, they sagged on the floor in a spent heap.

They kissed then, for what seemed like hours, sharing in the taste of each other. It was only when there was a pounding on the door from a horribly stuttering Marius that they put their clothes back on, composed themselves, and left the bathroom.

“H-hey, guys, um, we’re starting the next set soon,” Marius said, not looking at either of them. It would have been adorable if it were not so awkward.

“See you around, Angel,” Grantaire said, giving Enjolras a final squeeze on the ass for good measure. They left him outside of the bathroom and Enjolras took that as his cue to go home, all charm of the bar gone once he was alone again. Another night, he would return to the Corinth and lose himself again. Another night, he would return to the arms of the mysterious man who turned his insides to lava at the slightest touch.

For now, however, he was Enjolras, Fearless Leader and social justice activist. For now, that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, with ten minutes to spare, here's the chapter! Hope this is okay, it's the first major sex scene I've ever written. Expect a Grantaire chapter next week!
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	7. Simmering and Boiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire is lost and goes on a date.

For the third morning in a row, Grantaire woke up in a bed that wasn’t his own, in a room that wasn’t his own, and next to a total stranger. The night before’s offering had been a curvy woman whose beautiful face reminded him strongly of a female version of Marius. She was sleeping now, her long eyelashes softly fluttering and her thick raven hair spread over her pillow and tangling with Grantaire’s own. He almost wanted to wake her up, maybe ask her to breakfast or something. But no, it was just past four o’clock, far too early for such things. Besides, he had to go home and get ready for the hospital.

He left his lover as undisturbed as he could, dressed quickly, and left her apartment, locking the door behind him. In the building’s lobby, he noticed the address was about twenty minutes’ walk from his motel, so he wouldn’t bother wasting money on a cab. He wrapped his heavy black military coat tighter around his body and walked out into the darkness where snow was falling thick and fast. He shivered; this early December weather was a huge shock after his last winter spent in Phoenix. He never did like the cold, a fact that made him wonder why he ever came to New York. He had always wanted to see the city, sure, but why had he decided to stay? Even he didn’t know the answer to that question.

His motel room would be freezing too, they were never well insulated. He knew what he wanted. A warm body to sleep next to sounded better than anything else; there was a very specific warm body that he’d been dreaming of. What was Enjolras doing now? Probably sleeping. Grantaire thought briefly of calling him but decided against it. What would he even say? ‘Hello, Enjolras, I know we haven’t talked since the amazing sex a week ago, but would you object to leaving your warm bed to share mine because I’m lonely?’ There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make him sound pathetic, or worse, desperate. He forced himself to feel content with sleeping alone.

 The street was as crowded in this pre-dawn hour as it was at high noon. Grantaire walked in silence, only stopping to push past large throngs of people on the pavement. He didn’t need to push too hard, as people mostly scattered and gave him a wide berth when he trudged past. He shivered.

When he got home, he turned the ancient radiator on as high as it would go and, after setting his alarm, collapsed into bed without even taking off his coat. As warm as the room now was, he still felt cold inside as he fell asleep in his solitary bed.

At six, he was up again. He stripped off his clothes and got into the hot shower, which failed to melt the chunk of ice that had settled in his body. It sat heavy in his stomach like a rock and when he wiped the fog from the mirror, he could barely look at himself. He wanted to call in sick to work and spend the day, or the century if he was being honest, asleep.  But if he did that, he wouldn’t eat or even have a room to sleep _in_. So he forced himself into his scrubs, wrapped himself in his coat again and set out for his usual Starbucks in hope that it would improve his dark mood.

“Ah, Hamza!” the barista said, “The usual?” So the barista had finally learned his name.

“That’d be great, Jeremy,” Grantaire replied, “but add a double shot of espresso, please.”

While he was waiting for his breakfast, his phone beeped with a text from Enjolras. He grinned and opened it, his spirits lifting already.

**Hey, stranger. –E**

What the hell kind of message was that after a week of nothing?

**Why Enjolras, I was beginning to wonder if you’d dropped off the face of the earth. What’s up? –R**

“Latte and bagel for Hamza?” Jeremy called. Grantaire paid and left for the subway station. On his way, his phone beeped. He waited until he was seated before answering.

**Bad news. You know Feuilly’s speech for trans students? –E**

Grantaire remembered the heartfelt, painful speech at the meeting.

**Yeah. How did things go with the School Board? –R**

The reply was instantaneous.

**Horrible. Like, as bad as it could have possibly gone. Can you meet me at the Musain for lunch today? –E**

Grantaire was both saddened at the news and a tiny bit offended that he was just being used as a venting board.

**Sure, I’m always up for a venting marathon. My lunch is at noon so I’ll be there around ten or so minutes after that. –R**

This reply came a lot slower; Grantaire had finished his food by the time his phone beeped again.

**Wait I didn’t mean it like that! Like, oh hell, a date or something? –E**

There is nothing less casual than a person trying desperately to be casual about something. Grantaire thought it was adorable, to say the least, though he preferred the fire.

**Sounds good to me. See you there. –R**

He punched into the hospital and went down to the morgue, where he mopped, the chunk of ice never moving from his stomach. He passed his time down there in a daze, the bright red blood even seeming to have lost its vivid color. By the time his phone beeped to remind him it was noon, it felt like a century had passed as well as feeling like no time had passed at all. As much as he liked Enjolras, he didn’t want to see him. He didn’t want to see anyone. He needed something to get through the meeting and he needed it right then and there.

He kept a flask hidden in his cleaning cart, under the tray of clean cloths. This he took out and downed the whiskey inside, feeling the familiar burn in the back of his throat. He left the hospital and boarded the subway train that would take him to the Musain. The path to oblivion always made him sad before he forgot his troubles. He wondered what his mother would think of him now. ‘Hamza,’ she’d say, ‘I did not raise you to drink alcohol. You are harem, boy!’ She would be so disappointed in him, but that didn’t matter now, did it? Not when she was six feet under with the rest of the family and Grantaire was alone and depressed.

He forgot about her as the train pulled in to the station under the campus. Grantaire reeled out, certain that the whole train could tell that he was drunk. He stumbled to the front door of the Musain and composed himself; he’d had quite a few years of pretending he was sober. Once inside, he ordered himself a coffee and sat down at one of the leaf-shaped tables. Cosette seemed slightly afraid of him as he sat down heavily, so Valjean brought over his drink and took the chair across from him. Graintaire took a gulp and looked at Valjean with bleary eyes.

“Son, whatever you’re on, this is not the way,” Valjean said, taking one of Grantaire’s hands. Normally he would have pulled his hand back and snapped at him, but Valjeans kind eyes made him let down his guard.

“I-I need it,” he said, slurring slightly, “For Enjolras.” Valjean wrinkled his nose.

“I’m sure Enjolras will be fine if you don’t drink.”

“What do you know, old man?” Grantaire snapped. He jerked his hand back and settled into his coffee, not looking at anyone. How dare he tell Grantaire how to live his life?

“I know a lot, surprisingly enough. If you ever need anything, come talk to me.” Valjean left him alone to wait for Enjolras. And in he came, all red and brown and gold. He ordered his own coffee and sat across from Grantaire, beaming. His smile faded at the silence; could he tell that there was something very wrong?

“I cannot believe the day I’m having,” Enjolras said, “honestly, could the meeting have gone any worse?”

“Oh, _do_ tell,” Grantaire muttered. The drink had not helped his melancholy as much as he thought it would, he probably needed more. Enjolras raised an eyebrow, but did not seem to detect the sarcasm beneath.

“Okay, so we’re in this meeting, right? Arrived early and everything. I get through my presentation, which literally none of the Board members were paying the slightest bit of attention to, then it was time for Feuilly’s speech. To make a long story short, they laughed in his face and ended the meeting. So, nothing has changed,” Enjolras said in what seemed like a single breath. Grantaire finally looked up and stared him dead in the face.

“Are you really surprised?” he asked. Enjolras’ jaw dropped.

“Excuse me?” Enjolras asked him.

“I said, are you really surprised? Nothing changes and nothing ever will! Take Feuilly’s case for example. Here you and I see a nice young guy, prime of his life, and deserving of the same human rights as everybody else. But these old Board members see nothing but a ‘girl-boy’, a ‘freak’.  That’s all they see him as, Angel! And it will _never_ change! Everybody wants to change the world, but has it occurred to you that maybe the world can’t be changed? So these old people die, the next generation of assholes comes up! And it’s been that way forever. People like Feuilly are thrown out to die in the snow, gay people get beaten to death for existing, and people like us get shot because somebody else didn’t like what color they were! It’s crazy and fucked up and _nothing will ever change!_ And we can look up, we can scream and protest until the end of days and we’ll still be crushed under the motherfuckers in charge! So it’s useless, it’s all useless…” Grantaire was close to sobbing by the end of his speech.

Enjolras stared at him. And stared at him. And stood up, coffee untouched.

“Come back when you’re sober. Goodbye,” the hurt was clear in his voice and Grantaire mentally kicked himself. Enjolras left without another word and Grantaire soon followed. He did not return to the hospital, or go to the bar that night.

Instead, he slept restlessly and dreamed of a golden angel killing him with his sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for my lateness! I tried to evoke some of Grantaire's rants from the Brick and that took longer than anticipated. This is not my best chapter, I understand, but I promise that it will get better soon. Expect an Enjolras chapter next week!
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	8. Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras works out some of his problems and plans a rally with Les Amis de l'ABC.

“Hey, this is Enjolras. Call me back.”

“Hey, Enjolras again. Haven’t heard from you in a few days, are you alive? Call me back.”

“This is Enjolras. Joly and Bossuet said you haven’t been to the hospital and Marius said they’ve been playing without you. _Please_ pick up your phone, we’re all really worried about you. Bye.”

Enjolras pocketed his own phone after that last desperate voicemail and slid down in his wooden chair, face in hands. It had been nearly two weeks since anyone had seen or heard from Grantaire, two weeks since their disaster of a date. Despite his best efforts, a few tears slid down his face; what if Grantaire had died or something and Enjolras hadn’t noticed anything wrong but the stench of whiskey on his breath? Now that he thought about it, why _had_ Grantaire been drinking hard liquor in the middle of the day? There had to be something else going on and Enjolras would have given anything to not have stormed out when he did. He felt a reassuring pat on the back.

“It’s okay, E, he’s probably fine,”Combeferre’s deep, calm voice told him. Enjolras jerked up and stared him straight in the face.

“How do you-“ he asked, dumbfounded. Combeferre gave him that peculiar look like he was an all-knowing schoolmaster and Enjolras a misbehaving child.

“You’re joking, right? I’ve known you for a very long time and I definitely know when you’ve gotten attached to someone new. Gods alone know why you’ve picked _this_ one, but whatever you have going on, good luck.” Combeferre was right, as usual. They, along with Courfeyrac, were one perfect entity rather than three separate men. Enjolras had been an only child, but he had found his brothers as a teenager and now as an adult. Though, their tendency to read his mind could get a tad irritating.

“I just feel like this is all my fault, you know? He turns up to our, well, _date_ , so drunk that he could barely hold his head up, rants for a long time about the hopelessness of society, starts _crying_ , and what do I do? I snap at him and leave him there alone! There was something clearly wrong, now that I think about it, and I didn’t even see it. Why am I so horrible?” Enjolras’ head dropped into his hands again. Oh God, had Grantaire even made it home? Nobody knew where he lived and if he wasn’t picking up his phone, they had no way to check on him. Enjolras yearned for his voice, his face, the touch of his hand upon Enjolras’ bare skin. Combeferre made small circles on Enjolras’ back, a trick that always helped calm his nerves before exams.

“Two things. One, this is not your fault, he probably had several things wrong before he even got there. And two, you have never been able to read people _at all_ , E. Seriously.” Enjolras looked at him, offended.

“Well, neither have _you_! Do you remember when you straight-up told that poor girl that she was a lesbian? Literally in front of everyone?” Enjolras shot back. Judith had been waxing on about how hot Courfeyrac was all evening, which would have been understandable had she not been aggressively ogling the waitress and not looking at Courfeyrac at all. Nobody who liked men could ignore how ridiculously attractive Courfeyrac was; even Token Straight Guy Combeferre agreed that Courfeyrac’s sheer beauty had no parallel, making him impossible to ignore. Combeferre, in that sleepy, distracted way of his, had off-handedly told her to go ask out the waitress and stop lying to herself. The last Enjolras heard, Judith and the waitress were running a successful art gallery in Chicago and happily married. Still, Combeferre’s bluntness had been incredibly rude.

“On the contrary, I read people too well and _apparently_ ‘can’t keep my mouth shut’ and am ‘probably going to get punched by an upset person someday.’ For example, I’m reading you as being very distraught because someone you’re into isn’t talking to you. Do you, um, want to talk about it?” ‘Ferre asked, awkwardly stroking his head. Enjolras waved him away; it wouldn’t do for his club members to see him as anything less than the pinnacle of strength and stability.

“Maybe later, but now we need to get this meeting started. Attention, attention everyone!” he called out, “We’re going to get started now, so please take your seats. I have some bad news: our proposal was turned down at the meeting and trans students still aren’t allowed in the dorms. Since Feuilly can’t be here tonight, Bahorel is here by proxy to read what he has to say. Go ahead, man.” Enjolras took his place at the head of the table and Bahorel stood up. He took a neatly folded sheet of notebook paper and smoothed it out on his broad chest before reading.

“Number one,” he read, “this fucking sucks. Are you kidding me right now? Those bastards don’t deserve their position and they would not want to meet me down a dark alley.” This elicited a chuckle from Marius, who hushed when Cosette smacked him on the arm. Marius continued quietly translating for Jehan.

“Go on,” Courfeyrac said, “I want to hear the rest.”

“Number two, this isn’t over. I suggest we do a rally or something with all the school’s transgender students and supporters to show them how important this is to our student body. I have a list of a whole bunch of people who would be willing to speak at it and I think we could get some real support going. I’m free all of tomorrow if you guys want to meet somewhere and talk about it,” Bahorel continued. An excited chatter broke out and Enjolras had to stand to calm them all down.

“Okay, all in favor of a rally for the rights of transgender students, raise your hand. Marius, feel free to join. As far as I’m concerned, you’re one of us now.” There was a rousing chorus of agreement and Enjolras wrote it down.

“Let’s show them that minority students matter,” Bossuet said, raising a fist in solidarity. Joly followed him.

“Okay, so we’ll meet tomorrow with Feuilly, start networking, and be ready for a rally in February or March,” Enjolras said, “Do you think we’ll have enough people by then?” He was basking in the enthusiasm, ready to throw all he had into this statement.

“Um, E?” Combeferre asked, raising a tentative hand. Enjolras saw the look on his face and his smile faded.

“Something to add?” Enjolras asked him. He hoped that Combeferre wasn’t just going to rain on his parade immediately.

“We need to be really, really careful with this. You know what the cops around here are like and if we don’t get all of the necessary permits, we could be in serious trouble. Incarceration, expulsion, hell, even death because we looked at them the wrong way. We need to cover all of our bases before we even start networking,” Combeferre said. The mood died down and no one looked each other in the eye. Bahorel finally spoke up.

“So, we need to figure out a time and a place, meet with whoever owns it and get permission to use the space, make sure we’re not obstructing traffic or disrupting a noise ordinance, and make sure we have a cleanup crew for the aftermath just in case that’s a concern. After we’ve done that, we can get started on organizing the actual event and making posters and stuff.”

“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Courfeyrac said. Bahorel shrugged.

“I have friends outside of you guys, you know. I’ve helped with organizing inner city teachers for better funding for the schools and helped out with security on a couple of feminist marches. By the way, we should probably send our whitest friends to make nice with the people in charge of wherever we decide to hold this since the cops usually respond better to them.”

Enjolras looked at the room full of multicolored people and spotted two, maybe three, who fit that description.

“Okay, so that would be Cosette, Joly, and Feuilly,” Enjolras said. The named ones nodded and Bahorel said that Feuilly would do it. Courfeyrac wrote down their names with the rest of the minutes.

“Can Bossuet join us?” Joly asked. Enjolras was again reminded of Joly’s severe anxiety issues that seemed only to be lessened by Bossuet’s presence. He was glad that Cosette was going along, since Feuilly could be rather abrasive if he was in a bad mood and Cosette was the most soothing person he had ever been near. Joly would be fine with her.

“Dude, I’m literally Chinese. You can handle this, I believe in you,” Bossuet said and gave Joly’s hand a tight squeeze; Musichetta did the same on his other side. Joly said he’d do it.

“That’s settled then. Well, unless anyone has anything else to add, I think that’s it for tonight.  I’ll text you all tomorrow once we’ve met with Feuilly,” Enjolras said. Everyone started gathering their possessions and going out to the roomier and cooler main area of the café. Marius and Courfeyrac appeared to be in deep conversation about something while Cosette formally introduced herself to Joly. Once the room was cleared of all but him, Enjolras sat down with the minutes from the meeting to look them over. He heard a cough and looked up to see a very familiar figure sitting far down the table on his right side. Grantaire.

He was gaunter than Enjolras had ever seen him and looked as if he had been beaten down and hung out to dry. He was wrapped tightly like a small child in his big black coat, but at least he looked like he’d showered that day. His eyes, though still ringed with dark shadows, were clear, alert, and above all things, sober. Enjolras gave a small gasp, sprang up, and sat down by him.

“Hey, Angel,” Grantaire said, and braved a smile. He sounded like he hadn’t spoken in days, and Enjolras bet that he probably hadn’t. He gripped Grantaire’s rough hand tightly and leaned against his shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have run out on you like that, I’m really sorry,” Enjolras said. Against his will, he started quietly crying out of relief. He hadn’t even really come to terms with how worried he was or how much he missed Grantaire. It was strange, they hadn’t even known each other that long, but he felt a deep connection with him already.  He did tend to do that, after all.

“Hey, it’s okay, I was being an ass. Seriously, Angel, I’m fine,” Grantaire said, wiping the tears off of Enjolras’ face, “I came here to apologize, not make it worse. We could go out again, this time for real, if you want.” The question was implied and Enjolras _did_ pick up on that one. He sat up; his grin couldn’t be contained and broke his face in two.

“I’d like that,” he said. Grantaire’s eyes lit up and he looked the way he looked when he was performing onstage or even talking about his hobbies. It was adorable in such a giant man.’

“Okay, but we might have to hold off for a while. I’m picking up extra shifts at the hospital, which praise Allah, they let me keep my job, so I’m probably going to be working either there or at the bar for all of my weekends for the next month. It’s really a shame, Joly wanted to see the new dinosaur exhibit at one of the museums around here and it’s apparently closing next week,” Grantaire said in an excited babble, “I’ve been in New York for over a month and I still haven’t gotten to see anything. Like, there’s a gallery of art from the early Northern Renaissance that’s coming in January and I’m stoked to go see it.”

“We could go there, once you’ve paid your dues at the hospital. On our date,” Enjolras said. Allah? Art? There was far more to this man than a strong body and a killer voice, and Enjolras couldn’t wait to unwrap all of it.

“I’d like that,” Grantaire said. They exited the Musain, holding hands the entire way, and parted with a kiss in the snow under the twinkling holiday lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this wasn't up earlier, my internet has been terrible all day. As usual, expect a Grantaire chapter next week!
> 
> -The Reclusive Author
> 
>  
> 
> IMPORTANT EDIT: You may have noticed that I've changed the warning tag from "None Apply" to "Chose Not to Use" in the interest of not giving away spoilers. Some warnings actually DO apply, so if you're a person who needs a detailed (SPOILERS!) list of what to expect, contact me at the-devils-dandy.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, a lot of scary shit goes down in this story and tagging it all would be a pain in the ass, so use the tags as a guidepoint but not a be-all, end-all, of the types of things you will see in the story. Don't worry if it's sexual violence that you're on the lookout for, as that has no place in the story and thus will not happen. Those dudes in the bathroom back in Chapter 3 are the closest the story will come to that area. Again, contact me with any serious triggers and I'll tell you if you need to prepare yourself for them.


	9. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire plays the saviour and learns a thing or two about true intimacy.

Even in the darkest night, the sun eventually rises. A hurricane, no matter how frantic, always holds an eye and there is peace in the middle of swirling chaos. So it was with Grantaire, who was experiencing a rare time of contentment when Eponine sat down across from him in The Corinth.

“You’re peachy today,” she said. Grantaire stopped humming ‘Nothing Else Matters’ and blushed scarlet, eyes cast downward.

“Just feeling good, you know? Like things are gonna be okay. You?” he asked. And for once, he wasn’t lying. It felt like his soul had stopped rotting inside his chest and was instead floating the way it should, for the first time in a very long time. Eponine didn’t share in his giddiness.

“Not really, R. I don’t know what to do anymore,” she said. Grantaire examined her carefully and found her shaking, large eyes threatening to spill over with tears. He instinctively took her thin hand and she gripped his like it was a lifeline and she was about to fall over a cliff.

“About what? Talk to me, Nina,” he said. She smiled weakly at his nickname for her and then the tears started.

“I haven’t seen Gav in over a week and my ‘rents refuse to file a missing person report because then the police will start looking into the business and find out about the drugs and the stealing and the- the men who pay for Azelma and me to…” she trailed off, sobbing too hard to continue. Grantaire didn’t need her to; he understood exactly what had been happening to her and was even more disgusted by his boss than he had been. He knew that Eponine was seventeen and didn’t know the consent laws of New York, but Azelma was little more than a _child_.

“Gavroche will be okay. Does he have any hideaways or friends in the city?” Grantaire asked. When he had been temporarily homeless and run away to Chicago after The Incident, it was his acquaintances there that had kept him from starving to death until he got a job. If she said that Gavroche was alone, Grantaire was prepared to have a ten year old roommate. He barely knew the kid, but at least he was a familiar face.

“Normally he’d run to Montparnasse’s place, but he’s in the slammer for the next six months for a couple of bad smack deals. He’ll be out soon, he always is, but Gav can pick his apartment lock if he needs to,” Eponine said, than gasped, “That’s where he is! I’ll go over tomorrow and try to get him to come home, but I don’t blame him if he lays low there for a while. Fuck, I might join him and take Azelma with me. Thanks for listening!” And she was up and gone out the door of the bar.

“Anytime,” Grantaire said to the silence surrounding him. His mood, strangely, remained uncrushed by Eponine’s confession. He went back to humming to himself before a voice behind him turned his blood to ice.

“Have you seen Azelma around?” a nasal male voice said behind him. The man it belonged to was the picture of Your Neighborhood Pervert: thick aviator glasses, ill-fitting clothes concealing a lumpy body, wispy moustache, bad toupee, and a clammy lizard face. He turned Grantaire’s stomach, to say the least. There was only one thing a middle-aged man wanted with a fourteen year old girl in an empty bar and Grantaire was going to keep it from him at all costs.

“Buddy, the bar doesn’t open for another hour. I don’t know how you got in here, but I think you should go before Thenardier gets back and finds you,” Grantaire said, tone carefully civil. The man gave a thin-lipped smile.

“I’m here on Thenardier’s orders. He promised the girl to me, I paid, now where is she?” the lizard asked. Grantaire stood up and tried to look impressive, which had become difficult in his still-recovering body. He had lost almost all of his thick muscle in his last two-week depressive episode and looked rather like a giant skeleton.

“Get out. Azelma isn’t here,” Grantaire said.  Azelma was, in fact, in the band’s back room reading a book. It was about monsters and magic, something that he himself might have even read before when he was about her age. It was something so innocent in this girl’s horror story of a life that it broke Grantaire’s heart to see it disturbed. He prayed that she would stay quiet back there and not alert this man to her presence; Grantaire didn’t think he would have the strength to fight him off.

“Look, Osama, in this country we get what we pay for. Understand?” the man said in a condescending tone. Grantaire had heard racial slurs before, of course, but never with as much venom as was dripping from this pedophile’s voice. Where was the band? Surely the four of them together could take this man. He glanced around the table for a weapon, any weapon and found his empty beer bottle. It would cut the shit out of his hand, because _nothing_ in real-life is ever as cool as it looks in movies, but he could do it. He gripped it by the neck and smacked it as hard as he could on the table, biting back a cry of pain from the glass digging into his flesh. The man’s eyes widened and he backed up. As Grantaire advanced closer, the pervert turned and ran out the way he came, through a door that looked like part of the wall.

When he was gone, Azelma came running out and stopped dead when she saw that Grantaire was covered in blood and broken glass, bottle on the table.

“What happened?” she asked. Her voice had not yet taken on Eponine’s cracked, hardened tone and was a child’s timbre still. She grabbed a rag from the bar and wrapped it tightly around Grantaire’s hand. This time he really did cry out from the glass shards being shoved deeper into his palm.

“Just some creep in here. Nothing to worry about,” he said. She got up and pulled a medical kit from the wall, opening it and beginning to pick the glass from his wounds.

“Oh, was it Mr. Bell? Silly, you should’ve sent him back. He had an appointment today,” Azelma said and bit her rosy lip, “Dad’s gonna be so mad at me that Mr. Bell left.” Grantaire winced as she pulled a two inch shard of glass from his palm.

“Tell him that it was me and I’ll pay back any money that he’s missing,” he managed through the sting. Azelma poured a measure of Jack Daniels on his injury to disinfect it after she had pulled the last shard from his hand, then took out surgical tape.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Mr. Bell always pays in advance; this just means that he won’t be back. We were gonna have a real Christmas this year but now Dad probably won’t bother. You ever have a real Christmas, R?” Azelma chattered as she pulled together the edges of the deepest cut and taped them together like she had done this a million times before.

“Can’t say I have. My family used to go to the tropics whenever I was off of school during the winter. Or we’d use the days to visit family. What do you guys who celebrate Christmas normally do?” Grantaire asked. He had vague memories of old cartoons on TV, but none of his friends had ever really talked about it. His memories of his sisters in the sun were a sharp as the glass that had cut his hand, however, and he shoved them back down.

“Well,” Azelma said, taking the chair that Eponine had been sitting in only an hour before, “People usually give gifts and eat with their entire family, uncles and grandmas and all. Some people go to church or whatever but most just hang out at home. Dad promised to get a tree and close the bar this year, but with Mr. Bell’s  money next week gone I don’t think he will. Maybe if I can pull in a customer tonight….” Grantaire’s tired eyes snapped open at the suggestion.

“No!” he exclaimed, “I mean, how much does Bell usually pay for your, um, time?” The thought of this _little girl_ pulling some creep into a back room so she could have a nice holiday had become too much for him.

“I don’t know, three hundred or so? I’m not allowed to handle the money.” Grantaire had been saving for the last month, ever since he arrived in New York, and had only just reached that the night before. Well, apparently he was going to be staying in the city for longer than he intended.

“Let me talk to your dad; I promise that it’s all going to be okay. Now get outta here,” he said. She hugged him tightly and went back to the band room to get ready for the night’s dancing. He still wasn’t really happy about her forced job at the bar, but he had done his best, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? He was still musing on his small moral crisis when Thenardier waltzed in, followed shortly by the band. He pulled Thenardier aside and took out his wallet.

“Whatever Bell was paying for Azelma for next week, I’ll pay it. How much?” Grantaire asked. Thenardier raised one bushy grey eyebrow.

“Didn’t take you for the type who likes ‘em young, but whatever. Three hundred fifty,” Thenardier said.

“Not like that!” Grantaire protested, “Look, I have three hundred on me now and you can take my fifty for tonight. Give her what you promised, deal?” Thenardier spat in his right palm and stuck it out; Grantaire did likewise and shook it. He took out the stack of bills from his wallet, all of his savings, and watched them disappear forever into Thenardier’s pants pocket. At least he could rest easy knowing that he had made a little girl’s year. It made him feel clean, like a small patch of the tarnish on his heart had been rubbed away.

“R, you coming or what?” Johnny called. They ran through the set, so familiar by this time that Grantaire actually beginning to get a bored with it, and a break came sooner rather than later. He, for once, didn’t feel like drinking, so he sipped off of a bottle of tonic  water as he checked the texts on his phone. One long one from Eponine, three from Joly, and one from Enjolras.

**The little shit was at Mont’s place. And Mont must’ve KNOWN that he’d show up and I’d come find him bc there was an envelope for me on his counter. Told me I could house-sit while he’s in jail and how to wire money from one of his accounts to pay his rent and stuff. I’m going home one last time tomorrow to get mine and Gav’s things and then I’m never going back. Tell Azelma that she can join us if she wants but she doesn’t have to. I’ll be eighteen by the time Mont is free and by then I might have my own place or I’ll figure something out. –Nina**

Azelma, of course, would immediately take the chance to escape her parents. And Grantaire was out three hundred fifty dollars. Strangely, he didn’t feel too bad about it.

**That’s amazing! Tell Gavroche that I said hi and that he owes me a game of blackjack the next time I see him. Damn kid’s the best player I’ve ever met. –R**

Eponine texted back and said she’d tell him. Next was Joly.

**Do dinosaurs have feelings? –Joly**

**Oh yeah, Bossuet was wondering if you wanted to grab a burger in between sets tonight. He finally got another phone since the tragic toilet bowl accident of August and his number is (917)564-3900. So text him, yeah? –Joly**

**And also, I spoke to a city manager for the club today and did NOT throw up from fear, thank you very much. Go me, I guess. –Joly**

Joly had a certain scattered way of speaking that came out through his texts and Grantaire found it immensely likeable and even comforting.

**What’s the club planning, anyway? Marius has been going on about a protest? For what? –R**

**A burger sounds great. My first set ends around eleven or so. –R**

**And dinosaurs are dead, Joly. –R**

The text came back within seconds.

**LIES!!!! Illuminati confirmed, the truth is out there** **J. See you at eleven then. –Joly**

Now, the text that he had really been waiting for. Enjolras.

**Hey, what time do you get off from the hospital tomorrow? We could hang out. –E**

‘Hang out’, of course, was a poorly disguised euphemism.

**Six, but I’m not gonna be much fun. I sleep like the dead from then until I get to the bar. –R**

It took a while for the reply to come and the bar was starting to get its first stream of customers. Grantaire had almost given up and pocketed his phone again when it buzzed.

**You can sleep here, if you want. Like that’s okay, I just want to spend time together. –E**

Grantaire felt a funny tug inside his chest, one that he hadn’t felt for ages. It made him want to leave the bar at the moment and go to Enjolras’ side, but it also made him want to flee the city and fade back into obscurity. Since he, as of an hour before, had no money to his name, he was forced to calm down.

**Sounds good to me. Want to meet at the Musain, or? –R**

It was an unspoken question, whether Enjolras wanted to share that private part of his life, his home, with Grantaire.

**Sure, we can grab a drink and then go back to my dorm room. Courf’s out on a date tomorrow so he’s not going to turn on loud music or anything. –E**

His heart lit up like the Empire State Building as he tapped out an eager reply. As he sang that night, he did not touch a drop of alcohol, even with Joly and Bossuet when they stopped in for food and conversation. The two of them, however, got so smashed that he had to effectively pour them into a taxi, giggling and stumbling. He went to bed happy that night, because even though his bed was a single one, he didn’t feel quite as alone.

The next day, he was actually _humming_ as he mopped up blood and flesh particles. Six o’clock couldn’t come fast enough; he took the liberty of using the ‘emergency shower’ in the morgue and changed into his spare clothes, neatening his hair.  When he felt like he was presentable enough, and had the stench off of him, he punched out and practically ran to the subway. On the train, he set his phone alarm for eight o’clock.

**On my way. Train should be there in five or so. –R**

**Okay, I’ve ordered a couple of coffees. –E**

The cold air barely touched Grantaire as he walked down the street from the station opening to the coffee shop. Inside, it smelled like an amazing combination of espresso, chocolate, and sweet bread. He nodded to Valjean and found Enjolras standing to the right of the counter. He handed Grantaire a coffee and waved goodbye to Cosette.

“My dorm’s just up the hill from here. Um, I hope this is okay,” Enjolras said as the two of them crossed the snowy courtyard and headed up the small hill pavement. Grantaire was grateful for the hot drink; on instinct, he reached out with his other hand and took Enjolras’. Enjolras did not let go, even when they got up to his dorm room.

Even though he only knew Courfeyrac in passing, Grantaire could clearly tell who owned each side. Enjolras’ was disorganized and decorated with maps and posters for different rallies he had attended, along with, to Grantaire’s surprise, posters for old monster movies. Courfeyrac’s side was, if it were possible, even more of a disaster. His desk, bed, and walls looked like a glitter bomb had gone off and there were assorted costumes and props everywhere.

“Let me guess: Courfeyrac is a theatre major?” Grantaire asked, picking up an ornate beaded mask. Enjolras groaned and flopped down on his bed.

“Yup. Which means he’s rehearsing _constantly_ in here. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve found him in a ruff and doublet reciting Shakespeare, I’d be a rich man,” Enjolras said.

“When I was a graphic design major in Texas, my roommate was an actor. He wanted to be the next Colm Wilkinson, despite the fact that he had some of the worst stage fright I’ve ever seen. The dude would pass out, literally, _pass out_ at the thought of anyone staring at him. I think he’s an accountant now,” Grantaire said, taking the initiative and curling up next to Enjolras on his bed.

What Enjolras said next, Grantaire didn’t hear. He had fallen asleep to Enjolras’ oscillating heartbeat, safe and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the length can partially make up for the lateness! Expect the next Enjolras chapter to take place directly after this one in the timeline next week! I think the honeymoon period of this fic is just about over, don't you think?
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	10. Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has a heart-to-heart and sorts out his confused emotions.
> 
> EDITED FOR A CONTINUITY ERROR ON 7/20/2015

Enjolras mentally kicked himself for saying that it was cool for Grantaire to just sleep in his room. He had two different sides of his life, nay, two different sides of _himself_ that he preferred to keep distinctly separate. To invite the current epicenter of his secretive life into the heart of his real life was a damnable offense and threatened to knock down the high wall that he had built between them. What if Courfeyrac returned from a possible disaster of a date and found Grantaire sleeping next to Enjolras on the bed? Going on a single bad date and possibly having casual sex was one thing, but the level of pure trust that it took to leave yourself at your most vulnerable state was something that Enjolras didn’t want to explain to anyone, least of all himself. It was, in fact, somewhat new and altogether frightening to think about.

He had never given his heart to anyone before. His body, he occasionally used for fun and to fill a need, but no one had ever held all of his love. He had buckets of love to give, and he gave it away to friends and the less fortunate in bountiful measure, but that capacity for romantic love had never really occurred to him. Was he falling in love? How could he know? He was definitely attracted to the sleeping man next to him and was curious about who he was beneath that hardened exterior, but was it love or merely infatuation? Did he truly want to know about him or did he want a seductive mystery?

He didn’t know who to ask for help, if anyone. His first thought was Courfeyrac, but Courf, for all of his charm and wit, preferred flings and flirting to real relationships. Combeferre had never had a girlfriend and was rather shy and awkward around women, though Enjolras was sure that he could be a real catch for the lucky one who got past his twelve layers of social discomfort. He chose not to pry into the rest of his friends’ relationships and it would be awkward for everyone if he suddenly decided to have a heart-to-heart, so that option was out. His next thought was Valjean, but Enjolras knew that he was a never-married bachelor and that Cosette was adopted, so he might not be the best option to go to.  He was stuck; he decided to trust his gut and just go with whatever felt right at the moment, never mind what, if anything, was going on deep inside.

He found himself looking down at Grantaire’s still face, watching the way his long, dark eyelashes made half-moons on his scarred cheeks. Speaking of which, Enjolras wondered where he had picked the marks up. Was it a bad bar fight? An angry dog? Acid? The thick pink and white scars twisted and slashed across most of Grantaire’s now gnarled face, taking a chunk out of his nose and only stopping around his eye sockets. His knuckles, Enjolras had noticed, were horribly covered with the old wounds, but they were not nearly as bad as the ones on his face and these ones _did_ look commonly caused. Enjolras had a sneaking suspicion that the reason he had for leaving life as a promising student in Texas behind had something to do with the scars.

“What happened to you, R?” he whispered to himself as he traced the white lines on Grantaire’s hand, “What happened that made things like this?” He was nearly nodding off himself when the door practically banged open and Bahorel, of all people, crashed in, followed by a giggling redheaded woman dressed similarly in all black. They stopped dead in the doorway when they saw the two forms on Enjolras’ bed, jolted awake.

“Shit, sorry, E, didn’t realize you had someone over; you should _really_ think about putting a tie on the door.  Courf said we could use this room since my place is on the other end of town, but we’ll go,” Bahorel  said. Enjolras blinked at him, then blushed as he realized what Bahorel was implying. Grantaire jumped to his feet and smoothed his clothes, giving a nod to the intruders.

“I was actually just leaving, um, friend. See you later, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. The name sounded hard and unfamiliar to Enjolras, who hadn’t noticed until that moment how much he liked hearing Grantaire’s nickname for him. Grantaire grabbed his coat and was out the door before Enjolras could even say goodbye.

“Irma, babe, could you come back later?” Bahorel asked, “I think Enjolras and I need to talk.” The redhead shrugged.

“Whatever,” she said with the barest hint of an accent, “My shift at Payless starts in a half hour anyway. But who _was_ that hideous man?” Enjolras boiled at this.

“His name is Grantaire and he isn’t hideous. I think you should go.” The woman snorted and turned to leave.

“You’re right, he isn’t hideous, he’s _impossible_!” she said, “Anyway, text me, okay? Bye.” She kissed Bahorel quickly then left the room, leaving the two men alone. Bahorel sat cross-legged on Courfeyrac’s bed, facing Enjolras on his own.

“She’s a bit awful, isn’t she? What the hell?” Enjolras asked. Bahorel had a tendency to date people who were kind, smart, and always vividly ginger; this woman only checked the last box. Enjolras was baffled by what exactly Bahorel saw in such a mean person when his type tended towards the nice usually.

“Yeah, but she’s hot. Don’t think I’ll bother texting her though. Um, do you wanna talk about it?” Enjolras groaned and flopped back onto the bed.

“I don’t even know what _it_ is, man. Like, what are we?” he asked. Were they sort of dating? Just sexually compatible? Enjolras’ emotions were a tangled mess inside his chest and short of slicing through them, he didn’t know how to untangle them. Bahorel contemplated the question.

“Grantaire’s a cool dude, but like, how do you two even know each other? Seriously, I don’t get why you would ever run into each other,” Bahorel asked.

“The Corinth, that night that you dragged everyone there. I didn’t talk to him until he showed up at that last meeting that Feuilly was at, do you remember?” Enjolras replied.

“Yeah, I remember. So, do you hang together or what? I’ve legit never seen him other than that one meeting and a couple of times at the bar,” Bahorel said. This was encroaching on territory that Enjolras wasn’t keen to explore, but how could he stop now that he finally had someone that seemed like he’d listen?

“He works two jobs, but we text all the time and one time at the bar we, um,” Enjolras stuttered, but Bahorel held up a hand to cut him off.

“Okay, okay, I get the picture, chief. What’s the problem? Sounds like you’ve got a pretty sweet deal going on, unless…” he trailed off.

“Unless what?” Enjolras asked. Bahorel looked him dead in the eye to the point that it was almost uncomfortable.

“Unless you want something more,” Bahorel finished, “What is it you want, Enjolras?” It was a question that Enjolras himself had been wondering. Was he content with good sex and someone to text when he was bored? Or did he want to take the plunge? He was _not_ good with this feelings business, and especially not talking about it.

“I don’t know, okay? I have no idea what I’m feeling right now and I don’t know what to do about any of it,” Enjolras said.  Bahorel sat up a little straighter, then rested his chin on his hand.

“Does it hurt inside your chest when he’s not around? Do you worry if he’s okay if he’s not answering his phone?” Bahorel asked, “Do you feel like you’re seeing the sun for the first time when you talk? Is the world a little brighter when you think about him?” He sounded like these were questions that he had asked himself, that it was something he had been through himself. Or was still going through. Perhaps Enjolras had been in the wrong to not pry a little into his friends’ lives; in fact, now that he thought about it, it had been extraordinarily selfish of him to not even think to ask if they were in pain.

Bahorel’s questioning gave him pause. He _did_ feel an ache inside his heart that only seemed to be relieved when he was with Grantaire. He thought back to the fortnight of worry when Grantaire had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth, all of the worried messages that he had sent. The third question, as odd as it was, more or less applied. It was _mostly_ true, but it wasn’t a fun situation when Grantaire had drunk so much that he ranted cruelly about Enjolras’ ambitions and dreams. Enjolras could ignore that, so long as there were more good days than bad. The fourth question was even stranger, but again, the good qualities seemed to outweigh the bad and his world did seem a little brighter during the good.

“Yes to the first, yes to the second, usually to the third and fourth. What about _you_?” Enjolras asked, turning the tables. Bahorel seemed a little thrown by the question and his veneer was broken; for a second, Enjolras saw him look scared and cornered.

“Y-yes. To all of them, I mean. For a long time,” Bahorel said. Enjolras considered all the people he had ever known Bahorel to date. Kind. Smart. Redheaded. Who did he know that matched all of those qualities to the highest degree, someone that he knew Bahorel would do literally anything for, someone that he was rarely separated from? Oh.

“It’s Feuilly, isn’t it?” Enjolras asked. Bahorel stuttered and tried to hide his blush, but it was fairly clear. So he had been dating pale comparisons while the real thing lived with him, unassuming of his affections. It was more heartbreaking than any angst that Enjolras was going through with Grantaire, almost seven years of unrequited love.

“Yeah. What of it?” Bahorel hotly defended, but Enjolras could see how it pained him.

“It’s okay, you know. Are you ever going to tell him, or are you going to hurt forever? Genuine question,” Enjolras said. Bahorel laid back on Courfeyrac’s  bed and closed his eyes.

“I _can’t_ , Enjolras. It would be creepy.” Creepy? Enjolras couldn’t follow his logic, but he did sort of see where he was coming from. Bahorel was ludicrously wealthy and had shared it with Feuilly whenever he needed it, making it seem like if he confessed than he would have had an ulterior motive all along. Enjolras knew that he didn’t, of course, but it did look like he was an aspiring sugar daddy and Feuilly was some sort of gigolo.

“Hmm, I see what you mean. Not that you’re right, anyway, you idiot. You do realize that Feuilly wouldn’t have stayed with you if he didn’t like you, right? Like, everyone offered to chip in to help him move into his own place or at the very least, Combeferre doesn’t have a roommate but _does_ have an extra bed,” Enjolras said. Combeferre’s roommate had found his calling as a doctor in Peru, so he lived alone. However, he was willing to have a roommate if it meant that Feuilly wasn’t struggling to survive; Feuilly had refused this and continued to live with Bahorel, despite the fact that his financial burden would be eased if he moved in with Combeferre. Enjolras had known for quite a while that Feuilly had a thing for Bahorel but hadn’t known that it was reciprocated.

“Are you sure? I’m almost thirty, Enjolras, I’m _old_. He should have a nice young dude, not me,” Bahorel said. If Enjolras had rolled his eyes any harder, they might have fallen out of his head.

“He’s twenty-six, you know. That’s only what, three years younger? That's the same difference between Grantaire and I; it's really not that weird, dude..  Musichetta is older than both Joly and Bossuet, oh, don’t look like you don’t know about them. She’s your age, actually. Hell, even that one rude campus cop who’s always coming in to the Musain to yell at Valjean is like ten years younger than he is, but that doesn’t stop you from wondering if they’re ever going to get together. Point being, I don’t think it matters after you’re grown adults. Go for it, man,” Enjolras said. It had been quite a rant for him, especially since he wasn’t accustomed to giving relationship advice, but it was something that had needed to be said. He had, to his own surprise, included Grantaire in his list. It was then that he knew that he was gone for good, fallen hard and fast. He made a note to always go to Bahorel for love advice from then on out.

“You really think so?” Bahorel asked, excitement apparent in his voice.

“Yeah, do it. I’d start with going for a coffee or something small at first,” Enjolras said. Bahorel got to his feet.

“I’ll do it, but you have to tell Grantaire as well. I’ll see you later, okay?” Bahorel said, “I’ve gotta do it before I lose my nerve.”

Enjolras sat alone in his room, phone in hand, an hour after Bahorel had left. He had not sent a text, had not called, had not even moved from that spot. He was working up the courage to text Grantaire when his phone buzzed with a text from the man himself.

**Hey, I have the day off from the hospital tomorrow since they insist we take Christmas Eve off. I don’t celebrate it, but a break is nice. Anyway, do you want to go sightseeing around the city? I know it’s kinda lame, but it’s my first day off since I got here and I haven’t gotten the chance to look around yet. –R**

Enjolras, despite living in the city for his entire life, had never done any of the touristy things either. And he _had been_ about to ask Grantaire if he was free anytime soon.

**Sure, we can meet at 10 or so somewhere. It’ll be pretty crowded with tourists, the city always is at this time, but it should be okay if we go earlier rather than later.  How about we meet at the Museum of Natural History? It’s really neat. –E**

After a few minutes it buzzed again.

 **Sounds good. I’ve always wanted to go there since I saw Night at the Museum** **J  –R**

It was at times like this that Enjolras wondered how much of Grantaire’s ultra-tough, devil-may-care personality was a veneer covering up a giant nerd. No wonder he got along with Joly so well; Enjolras was also certain that Combeferre would absolutely love him if they ever were introduced. He didn’t know what to say to that confession, so he shut off his phone without texting back.

It was midnight and he was tired. Courfeyrac still wasn’t back yet, so either his date had gone very well and he was staying at their place or very badly and he was hiding out in Combeferre’s room because he was upset. For some reason, Combeferre was the best person to go to when you were hurting, as his quiet and calming personality put you immediately at total ease. Enjolras was not unsympathetic, but simply did not know what to say to a crying person and so wasn’t offended that Courfeyrac chose to complain to Combeferre instead. He would have done the same thing, and if things went south on his date the next day, that was probably where he would end up.

He set his alarm for eight o’clock the next morning and put on his red-and-white striped pajamas, the ones that Courfeyrac said made him look like a blond candy cane. He slipped beneath his sheets and burrowed deep into his bed, shoving his face into his pillow. Emotionally exhausted, his heart was full but his mind was clear as he fell blissfully asleep, glad that he had finally sorted out a few of his issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a fun bit of trivia: all of the Amis' ages except for Bahorel are accurate to the year 1832 in the book. Since Bahorel is stated as having been a law student for 11 years in 1830 in the book, I've assumed him to be 29 years old. In 1832, he would have been 31, but I felt that was too old to have him in my story so I've gone with his 1830 age instead. Musichetta , Feuilly, and Jehan are also guessed on, but based on their descriptions, I've put them respectively at 29, 26, and 22.
> 
> Here's everyone else, for future reference (this is for both a note to myself and you guys). If someone has a birthday I'm going to need to know how old they'll be turning:
> 
> Enjolras-24  
> Combeferre-24  
> Courfeyrac-24  
> Joly-25  
> Bossuet-27  
> Grantaire-27  
> Marius-21  
> Eponine-17  
> Cosette-18  
> Valjean-64
> 
> Another fun fact: despite being various races, every character has an actual reason for a French last name. Most of these reasons are not relevant to the story, however, so they probably won't appear in any chapters. The author's notes might contain them, however. Hell, I might start giving mini-biographies at the end of chapters for the various characters.
> 
> As usual, expect a Grantaire chapter next week. Warning: it will not be very happy.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	11. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Enjolras go on a date and meet someone from Grantaire's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of instances of homophobic language used towards our boys during their date in this chapter. Fair warning.

                Grantaire paced outside of the Museum of Natural History, tapping at his phone screen. Where was Enjolras? Hadn’t the plan been ten am in front of the museum? It was now ten-thirty, and Enjolras had not so much as shown one blond hair.  Grantaire had worn his nicest casual outfit and everything, a thick green navy sweater, black jeans, and his nice pair of biker boots; he had thought to shave his beard, but shivered when he remembered the twisted network of ugly scars that ran beneath it. He had never been a particularly handsome man, but he had gotten by on a certain level of charm, a body of solid muscle, and a brooding expression before The Incident. Floreal had even commented that when he kept a contemplative expression, he resembled some tragically beautiful king from days gone by. Now that his face was effectively ruined and his weight was at a historic low, he just looked tragic.

He sighed and turned from the building, shoving his phone in his pocket as he stalked off, coat blowing behind him.

“R, wait!” came a shout from his back. He whipped around and saw Enjolras practically sprinting towards him, bag jostling as he pushed past the crowd. His curls were wild, his eyes wilder still, and he appeared to be wearing a bizarre mix of patterns that somehow worked on him. His shirt was red-and black spotted, his coat a brilliant scarlet argyle, and his trousers crimson plaid. If he wasn’t so pretty, he would be an eyesore, but instead he looked like a model wearing the latest trend in clothing. He finally caught up to Grantaire and they joined the stream of people entering the museum. Once they had paid their fare and caught their breath, they at last had a chance to stop and talk.

“Wait, don’t tell me: your favorite color is red,” Grantaire said. Enjolras did always seem to be wearing at least one item of the vivid color whenever they were together. Enjolras looked down at his hands.

“Is it that obvious?” he asked. Grantaire laughed a little.

“A bit, yeah. We just look like a holiday display, which is pretty funny if you ask me,” he said, “So. Where do you want to start today?” Enjolras paused and considered the question before answering. He smirked, which was a _very_ odd expression to see on his face.

“The Hall of Biodiversity. Hardly anyone visits that hall, especially this time of year, so we can be,” he said, pausing again, “ _alone_.” Was Enjolras implying what Grantaire thought he was implying? Kinky.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Grantaire said, smiling, “You only want me for my body.” Enjolras grabbed his hand and led him down a wide hallway to a nearly empty gallery. Two people, a man and a woman in an electric pink hijab, stood looking at the exhibits. Grantaire thought that the woman looked sort of familiar, but she was too far down the gallery to tell for certain.

“So what do you think?” Enjolras asked, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s waist.

“Very full of biodiversity. I mean, look at all that biodiversity,” Grantaire said. Truthfully, the most interesting thing in the hall as the man behind him. He felt a small kiss behind his ear, sending an electric current down his body. Enjolras’ plans for the day were definitely his idea of a good time.

“I’ll bet,” Enjolras whispered in his ear, “that I can make you come from talking alone. Does that sound good?” Grantaire couldn’t speak so he just nodded quickly.

“Imagine me going down on you right here, right now, in this hall where anyone could walk in. Do you want to know what happens next?”

“Yes, oh God, yes,” Grantaire whisper-groaned back. Enjolras certainly was talented as Grantaire could feel the intense pressure building up in his abdomen and his hot groin. Enjolras rutting him softly from behind wasn’t hurting matters either.

“After you’re drained dry, we sneak into the Redwood Forest exhibit over there,” Enjolras gestured to the tall imitation woods several yards down, “And I make you mine. Slowly, I bend you over and-“

“Hamza? Is that you?” a female voice called from down the hall, interrupting Enjolras’ seductive speech. Grantaire whipped them around and saw the woman in the vivid headscarf rushing down the hall, the man she was with in tow. Now that she was closer, he was struck by bright memories of lazy summer days, college clubs, and dates on the river.

“Floreal!” he exclaimed, as she tackle-hugged him. He spun her around in a tight embrace and set her down.

“It’s been what, three years since I last saw you? What brings you to New York?” she asked after they had broken apart. Grantaire felt Enjolras’ arms snake around his waist again.

“You know me, always wandering. I’ve wanted to live here for forever and now I finally am. What about you?” he asked her. She looked good, still the beautiful woman he had first met in Texas nine years previously.

“My husband, William, is a stock broker. We moved here last spring from Austin,” Floreal said. Her husband was a handsome man, in a bland sort of way. He looked exactly like one would expect a stock broker to look like, quite a change from the young, fit graphic designer that she had fallen in love with so long ago.

“Not to be rude, but who exactly are you?” Enjolras asked, a hint of an edge to his voice. Grantaire felt a warm kiss on the side of his neck.

“Hamza’s ex, I guess. We broke off the engagement over six years ago, so calm down, it’s not like I’m trying to steal your man at this point,” Floreal said, brushing it off like a joke. Enjolras dropped off of Grantaire and stood by his side, gripping his hand tightly.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, but we have to go. Reservations,” Enjolras explained. Grantaire had the sneaking suspicion that they were only going to get away from Floreal. Was Enjolras really threatened by her?

“Oh, okay. You still have my number, right?” she asked Grantaire, “Call me sometime and we can meet up for lunch or something. It’s good to see you again, really.” Floreal hugged him again and, hand-in-hand with her husband, exited the gallery. The air felt as thick as peanut butter, even thicker due to Enjolras’ prolonged silence.  It was maddening, but Grantaire plastered on a false smile and pretended like everything was okay.

“So, where do you want to go next? We could stay in the museum, or we could go to the Statue of Liberty, I’ve always wanted to see that,” he chattered, desperate to fill the emptiness, “What do you think?”

“It’s a while on the subway, then a ferry clear out to Ellis. It takes a long time to get out there and it’s probably crowded with tourists,” Enjolras said. Well, this was going to be a fun day if Enjolras was going to be crabby. Grantaire, in spite of it, was determined to have a good time on his day off.

“Let’s explore the museum then. The paleontology exhibit looked really cool on our way in here.” He’d wanted to snap a picture in front of the weirdest looking skeleton and send it to Joly, maybe with a stupid joke like, _Joly, I didn’t know that you modeled!_ If his date ended up sucking, at least he’d have a good laugh to look back on.

“Sure, whatever,” Enjolras replied and shrugged. What the hell was his problem? It wasn’t like him to act like a petulant child, especially when things had been going so well. Grantaire didn’t even bother to try to hold his hand as they exited the Hall of Biodiversity, passing the Redwood Forest that Enjolras had been whispering about fucking him in. That horse, apparently, had been shot right between the eyes.         

Pushing through the swarm of people, they eventually got to the dinosaurs. The towering skeletons cast shadows as the couple toured the exhibit in total muteness, stopping every now and again so that Grantaire could examine the skeletons more closely. He considered all of the odd skeletons he viewed, until he found one a bit shorter than he was in an awkward stance with a bird-like face. This one he took a picture of and sent it to Joly along with his message. Enjolras, on the other hand, barely looked at the exhibits and held a facial expression of wanting to be anywhere but there. Time to leave.

“Want to go to lunch somewhere? I know it’s early but this place is getting a little crowded and people are staring at me,” Grantaire said. As much as he was enjoying the museum, his marred face tended to draw harsh or worse, pitying, gazes from others. He had forgotten, since he mostly kept to the underbelly of the cities he lived in, that tourists from small towns in the Midwest or rural areas stared at him like a zoo animal. Even in New York, where the most hideous or flamboyant could disappear into the crowd, he felt like Quasimodo in the eyes behind cheap disposable cameras and under bucket hats. So _that’s_ why he had subconsciously avoided touristy areas; the endless humiliation of being watched and judged by obese Nebraska natives with nine or ten kids in tow was a giant pain in the ass and made him want to crawl back to the dark from whence he came. As someone who spent much of his childhood on military bases, he grew up seeing many, many soldiers who bore horrific scars or missing limbs from warzones, so he didn’t realize how alarming most civilians found a disfigured person until he ventured out as one after The Incident. He had never gotten used to it, though every single day he thanked Allah that the attackers had not stolen his eyes from him or taken very much out of his nose.

“Yeah, let’s go to Claudio’s. It’s a neat little Italian place about a block from here,” Enjolras said, breaking his silence and one-word answer streak for a moment. Perhaps, seeing Grantaire so uncomfortable about the gaping crowd, he had found it in his heart to stop being so sullen and let them get out of there. Shoving out of the jostling crowd was about as difficult as shoving in had been, so Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hand for security purposes and they attempted to get out, but were pushed back. The muttering around them was driving Grantaire insane, those snipping, insidious voices.

“Watch where you’re going, freak.”

“Mommy, what’s wrong with his face?”

“Couple of homos, Jim Bob, don’t let the kids see!”

“His bomb probably blew up in his face; don’t know why they let people like that into this country.”

The insults hit him like a knife, each one another dagger in his breast. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard each of them a myriad of times before, but it still hurt to have them slung at him.  He kept his face down in shame and helped Enjolras push them out onto the street. The snow had picked up and made swirling, dancing patterns around the couple and the throng out on the street. Grantaire had to stop and take a few deep breaths of the icy air before they started down the block towards the restaurant.

Enjolras did not speak, did not touch him, did nothing except stare straight ahead and trudge through the slush. It was as if Grantaire had done something, he didn’t know what, to upset him. So he stopped trying to initiate conversation and followed suit.

Claudio’s, it turned out, was a tiny restaurant squashed between two looming skyscrapers. The interior was warm, with extremely intimate seating and a lack of customers. The hostess seated them at the table away from the door. Again, Enjolras held his silence, which Grantaire was starting to find incredibly irritating.

The meal, he couldn’t even remember what exactly he ordered, was picked at without a single word from either party. Grantaire felt the anger radiating off of his date, and in turn he was getting steadily more and more pissed off. What the fuck was his issue, anyway? Was Grantaire not allowed to have a life outside of him? And why, oh why, didn’t this restaurant start serving wine earlier than five p.m.?

After perhaps a half an hour of bubbling rage, his anger was now at a full boil. He stood up and, after paying his part of the bill, stalked out of the restaurant. Through the plate glass window, he saw Enjolras toss down a few dollars for the tip after he paid and followed him out of the street. Grabbing Enjolras’ wrist, he pulled them down the nearest subway stairs and into the single-stall unisex bathroom.

“Talk,” Grantaire said, facing Enjolras against the opposing wall. Enjolras stood rigid  against the sink.

“What do you want me to say?” Enjolras mumbled. Was he being deliberately obtuse?

“How about why the hell you’re acting like _such a jackass_? Seriously, what’s your problem?” Grantaire asked.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were engaged?” Well, that one came out of left field.

“I didn’t think it fucking relevant since it ended over six years ago! God, you’re being such a jealous _bitch_ -“ The punch to the eye cut him off mid-sentence. A white flash of pain and shock that Enjolras had actually hit him screamed behind his eyes. The boxer in him took over and instinctively he punched back, this one straight to Enjolras’ sternum. He wasn’t strong enough to fracture it, but at least it would bruise for weeks.

Then they were whisper-yelling foul things at each other, things that Grantaire had not known were locked inside his chest, and throwing more blows to head, chest, stomach, throat. Soon, however, it had devolved into harsh, greedy, kissing, as if each was trying to suck the life out of the other. Grantaire was shoved up against the wall, had his lips bitten, was given lip bruises that would last even longer than his black eye; he struggled to deal them back as hard as he was given them as they ripped at each other’s clothes.

In the midst of the fever, Enjolras had gotten him turned around and bent over the sink, both nude by this point. He pulled up Grantaire’s head by the hair and, looked into Grantaire’s face for a second; Grantaire gave a sharp nod to continue. Did he really want to continue? As pissed off and in pain as he was, he had a throbbing rage hard-on that desperately needed release. Behind him, he could hear a condom wrapper being opened as well as another wrapper of some sort. A lubed up finger slid inside him, then another, then another until he was opened wide enough to receive Enjolras’ cock. It started slowly, then a sudden thrust made him gasp with a mixture of pain and pleasure.  He closed his eyes and lost himself to the sensation of being pounded from behind, until he was coming, coming harder than he had in a very long time. Enjolras, after the clench from Grantaire, came seconds later. Grantaire felt him pull out, then lean against his back, spent.

“I love you,” Enjolras whispered. Grantaire only stared at his own reflection, hair having long since lost its elastic, face flushed and blossoming with bruises, body pressing painfully against the sink.

“I love you too,” Grantaire said back, still staring straight ahead. They slid off of the sink and redressed, not looking at each other at all. They exited the bathroom one at a time, going their separate ways. It was now one p.m., and as Grantaire boarded his train, he was tired and wanted to go home. He sat in his seat, wondering to himself what sort of line they had just crossed and whether he could ever go back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be from Enjolras' perspective. I update as often as I can, but I'm back in school now and don't have a lot of time to write. I hope you understand. Thanks for reading!
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	12. The Caged Bird Sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes host a political rally and things go array.

Enjolras’ bruises had faded into no more than a distant memory by the time February 5th, the day of the rally, rolled around. For the first week after he had received them, looking at his naked body in the mirror was a hard experience; even through his dark skin, the bruises were highly visible. Thank God that the turtleneck was invented, or else he would have a lot of explaining to do to his concerned friends about the indigo splotches all over his arms and neck. Courfeyrac had been with an incredibly violent older man for a while in his late teens and Enjolras knew immediately what his mind would jump to if he showed up with skin like an apple that had been kicked down a flight of stairs. Combeferre was an extremely observant soon-to-be doctor that interned at the hospital and saw hundreds of victims of domestic abuse a week (not that it _was_ domestic abuse, of course). How could he tell them that he had started it, had dealt out at least as many if not more bruises on Grantaire than he had gotten back? They would never understand, hell, they were skeptical when he explained that the bruises on his face were a result of crashing headfirst into a brick wall while on his bike.

 As preparations for the rally for the rights of transgender students continued Enjolras saw less and less of his boyfriend. He had seen Grantaire very briefly on New Year’s Eve, when Bahorel and Feuilly had held a small party at their apartment, but was so consumed with planning and gaining supporters that he hadn’t had much time for him. Everybody else, however, was busy as well. Musichetta and Bossuet were making posters, Feuilly was collecting other speakers, Bahorel spent hours on end making phone calls to his friends outside of the club for their support, Joly and Cosette rarely left either the police station or the student services building in order to get the necessary permits, Marius and Courfeyrac essentially grew roots on the campus sidewalk as they spread the word and flyers, and Combeferre and Enjolras organized the agenda and helped out wherever they could.

The headquarters for the club had moved from the Musain and into the ballroom in the English building. Enjolras was shocked at how many people had shown up to support the cause, likely over a thousand individuals both trans and otherwise. At the door, each supporter picked up a sign and followed the arrows out onto the snowy main courtyard where Jean Valjean, who wanted to help, had constructed an enormous wooden platform and set up a sound system. Once the crowd, which would only grow larger as the rally went on, had jam-packed into the yard, Courfeyrac took the stage.

“Hello and thank you for coming out to support your fellow students tonight!” he shouted into the mic, “We have seven speakers about the transgender housing rights issue here with us today, so make some noise!” The crowd went wild, then died down as he held up his hand. Enjolras never failed to be impressed by how well Courfeyrac could hype up a crowd. He was even more impressed by Marius, who was translating at the speed of light into sign language for the deaf crowd members. They all stood in a pack towards the front with Marius directly in front of them so they could see him clearly; Enjolras hadn’t even thought of accessibility issues until Marius mentioned that he was fluent in ASL and if he could translate during the rally. Enjolras had told him yes, of course he could, and that he could rope off a section in the front for crowd members with disabilities. Several wheelchair users had commented as they had wheeled in that this was the first time a student rally had kept them in mind. Even the language barrier was penetrable, as several club members spoke foreign languages (Marius alone spoke ASL, German, Farsi, and French) and were able to make transcripts of the speeches to hand out to the many, many students who weren’t totally fluent in English. Jehan worked particularly hard at the French translation, though it turned out that he spoke Russian as well as he spoke his native tongue and thus could provide that one.

“And now, to speak about her experience at this school, give it up for Emily Jackson!” he ended, then passed the mic to a shy looking woman who looked as if she wanted the ground to swallow her. She took a couple of deep breaths and when she spoke, her voice was low and clear like a church bell.

“As you heard, my name is Emily Jackson and I am a transgender female student majoring in Marine Biology. I came out when I was twenty; now four years later, I’m living out of a hotel room with six other people. I work two full-time jobs in between my classes, which means I can only earn my Associates Degree this year when I _should_ have had my Bachelors two years ago. If I was allowed to live in the dorms and eat the campus food like everyone else, I could quit one job and have more time for school. Please, I’m not a perv, I just want somewhere to sleep at night that has a lower chance of being murdered for smack money by my roommates. Thank you,” she finished and handed the mic off again to Courfeyrac. Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief that at least the first speaker had gone over well.

“Now everybody chant with me, and we’re gonna do this after ever speaker, okay? ‘What I was born as doesn’t matter today!’” he shouted, then held out the mic for the crowd to repeat.

“ _What I was born as doesn’t matter today!_ ” the crowd roared back. Enjolras got the next speaker, this one in a wheelchair, rolling up the ramp to the stage while Combeferre gave the guests refreshments and soothed nerves with his warm and comforting manner. The schedule was running like a well-oiled machine and Enjolras couldn’t be happier with the way that things had turned out. One by one, the speakers took the stage, the crowd chanted, and the roar grew louder and more powerful with each story. Some brought laughter, some triumph, some tears.

“It’s going great, Angel. Can’t believe how many people actual showed up,” a familiar voice behind him said. He turned to see someone that he hadn’t seen in over a month, someone whose frame had once again filled out into its healthy musculature. He looked pretty damn good, along with Eponine, who seemed to have grown less frail since November when Enjolras had met her at The Corinth. She held her head a little higher, looked less pale, and the dark hollows of her face had filled out into a rather pretty shape.

“You came! Oh, hey Eponine, what’s up?” he asked, his tone as bright as his hair. Combeferre looked at them quizzically and Enjolras mouthed that they’d talk later; Combeferre turned back to his mothering of the speakers, even those who had already gone. He may have the small talk and polite conversation skills of a goat, but damn, the man loved humanity and it showed as the guests who had been frozen and silent only hours before began to open up and talk to each other.

“Just keepin’ on keepin’ on, I guess. R told me that he was going to a rally today and I was bored, so here I am. Great stuff, by the way, really moving. Any problems with the cops yet?” Eponine asked. She played with a strand of her ponytail and Enjolras noticed Cosette staring over from where she was helping do crowd control. Staring like she knew Eponine from somewhere, which would ordinarily not be baffling as they all were on the same college campus, but there was something behind her eyes that made Enjolras wonder what she was thinking.

“Not yet, anyway. Cosette and Joly were very thorough in getting permission for us to be here and it doesn’t look like things are at riot-level yet. We only have one speaker left, then time for a final chant and explaining where to go to sign our petition.” Joly was working sound, somewhere where he wouldn’t have to deal with a huge crowd. When Combeferre had been sorting everyone into positions, he had ‘nonchalantly’ put Joly where he would be the most comfortable, despite the fact that Jehan had been doing sound at his theatre back in Leon since he was fifteen.

It was the little things like that that made Combeferre such an asset to the team; Enjolras loved grand ideas and ambitions, but Combeferre brought a gentle combination of pragmatism and human compassion. The key to realizing their dreams, however, was the man currently hyping up the crowd onstage.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, our final speaker and spokesman for this rally, _Alexander Feuilly!_ ” Enjolras patted the redhead on the back and sent him up the ramp and onto the stage. He was dressed in a neat suit, one that Bahorel had loaned him for the occasion. Well, Bahorel _claimed_ that it was just a loan, but everyone knew that he would never ask for it back. He would do what he always did, which was state that in the name of fashion, his tailor had screwed up and used the wrong color, one that would never suit him. The dark navy did, however, go beautifully with Feuilly’s vivid hair and fair skin, something he surely must have noticed when he looked in the mirror that morning. Enjolras had the suspicion that Bahorel had it made specifically for Feuilly; he would never say anything, though, since Feuilly was uncomfortable receiving gifts even from his boyfriend.

“Thanks for coming out here today, everyone. I’m a Civil Engineering major who was born and raised as a girl in foster care in the Bronx, so I don’t come from much money. I work three jobs and am not allowed to live in the dorms. If not for the charity of my friends and local soup kitchens, I would have starved to death by now. Allowing us to live in the dorms with everyone else would greatly improve our financial situations and make better students of us. Thank you,” Feuilly said. Short, sweet, and to the point. He handed the mic off to Courfeyrac and exited to a wave of the chant.

Courfeyrac continued to chant with them for a long time, getting louder and louder with every round. He understood people more than either of his two best friends, so they relied on him to keep up interest. He turned to chat with Grantaire again when Eponine grabbed his arm, staring straight at Cosette.

“Please, will you do me a solid and get her number for me?” she asked him. Enjolras felt bad for her, since Cosette and Marius were nearly inseparable.

“Um, I’m sorry but I think she has a boyfriend,” Enjolras said, trying to let her down as gently as possible. Grantaire gave him a bewildered look.

“What are you talking about? No, she doesn’t,” he asked Enjolras. It was his turn to be confused.

“Marius? The guy that she’s almost always with? Aren’t they together?” Grantaire gave a low laugh.

“Marius may be a lot of things, but lucky in love is not one of them. He was complaining the other day how Cosette wasn’t into him, but he respects that she’s a lesbian. Eponine, didn’t he used to hit on you too?” Grantaire said. Eponine shrugged.

“He’s very nice and all, but I’m not into dudes. He’d better love a dream, honestly, though it’s a good change to be respected when I said no. Anyway, please, Enjolras?” He sighed and nodded. She handed him a receipt with her name and number hastily scribbled on the back.  He’d never exactly played matchmaker before, but who knows, it could be fun.

The crowd was chanting along with Courfeyrac, shouting into the sky, and Enjolras felt some type of energy coming off them that instantly set his teeth on edge. If they weren’t done soon, they may have a riot on their hands; he made a note that after he got Cosette’s number for Eponine, he’d take the stage and, after thanking everyone and showing the way to the petition, disperse the rally. Cosette was running the gauntlet back and forth, checking for any crowd disturbances that could cause problem, and was covered in snow from the knees down. Enjolras caught her as she made it back to the front, out of breath and disheveled from breaking up fights and keeping the crowd within boundaries.

“Hey, my friend over there wanted to know if she could have your number. Here’s hers,” he said, handing over the scrap of paper. She brightened as she read, then blanched when she got to the name.

“Eponine? As in Eponine Thenardier?” she asked. Did they know each other? New York wasn’t exactly a small city.

“Yeah, why?” he replied. She shoved the paper back at him.

“Take it back, I don’t want it. Give it to someone else,” she urged, then started running back to the back of the crowd. He saw her stop halfway back, punch something into her phone, and continue running. What had _that_ been all about? He clutched the paper as he headed back into the presenter section, then was stopped by a flustered Combeferre.

“Hey, E? Could you um, well, could you get Grantaire’s friend’s number for me?” he said in a rush, then looked down at the ground. Yikes. But Enjolras was in a hurry to dispel the brewing disaster, so he tossed the receipt at Combeferre and headed up to the stage. However, it was too late by the time he stood in front of the frenzied crowd that Courfeyrac was barely controlling. A fight was breaking out in the middle of the pit from the heightened emotions, a fight that Bahorel, Bossuet, and Cosette were desperately trying to wade in to break up. They were pushed out as soon as they started to make way.

“E, what do we do?” Courfeyrac asked, “The crowd is out of control and I can’t bring it back until it calms down. Security is going to get killed in there if we don’t stop this now.” The fight was spreading into a large-scale riot with flying fists and bodies. Enjolras tried shouting into the mic, but nobody was listening anymore and wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway over the screaming.

“Get the speakers and the disabled section out of here, then wait for the cops to show up. I’ll deal with the consequence when they come, so get yourself gone as soon as you see the uniform,” he said.

“You can’t face them alone! They’ll _kill you_ -“ he started, but Enjolras held up a hand to silence him.

“Don’t you think I know that? But this is my responsibility as leader to deal with law enforcement, so please, go when you see them. Spread the word to the others to clear out the vulnerable and get away while there’s still time. Now!” he shouted, and Courfeyrac gave him a tight hug before disappearing down to where Marius was trying to push three wheelchairs at once out of the courtyard. Enjolras stood center stage, shouting for everyone to calm down. Wave after wave of officers was barging into the crowd and people were starting to panic and flee. The cops caught whoever they could, and Enjolras felt a hand tightly grip his. Grantaire stood by his side, stone faced, as seven officers took to the stage with their guns pointed straight at him. They let go of each other and knelt, hands behind their heads as they waited for whatever was next. Enjolras closed his eyes.

“Stop! I want them all brought in alive and unharmed!” Javert’s harsh voice cut through the noise, his cockney accent becoming more pronounced as he shouted. Enjolras looked up to see the imposing, lean figure with the set face of russet stone. His old adversary, the cop who shut down everything that he had tried to start in the time since he had arrived at the university. Javert’s face was lined with many years of dedicated service, his posture impeccable, his black hair slicked back to his head.

“You sure, Chief? This one,” the deputy said, pointing to Enjolras, “looks like a thug. Let’s stop the problem before it starts again.” He leveled his gun at Enjolras again and Javert, quick as lightning, grabbed his wrist and squeezed, forcing him to drop the gun.

“The task of the Law,” he said, voice deadly and sharp, “is to follow the arrest procedures outlined in the department manifesto and the law of this state. They are not resisting arrest and we do not have due cause to kill them on sight, Perkins. Cuff them and take them to the station.” So evidently, Javert was _not_ a simple university cop as Enjolras had assumed, but a real chief of police. Why, then, was he always hanging around the campus, especially The Musain? Didn’t he have better things to do than examine a coffee shop for corruption and break up student activists? Who hired this guy?

As they were marched off the stage, Enjolras noted that there was a huge patch of scarlet staining the trampled white snow, along with dots spiraling off in all directions. He _really_   hoped that it had just come from the intense brawl and not a bullet wound. But there was no time to think about that now. They were handcuffed and separated, Enjolras taken into Javert and Perkins’ squad car, Grantaire taken to the vans stuffed to the brim with captured revolutionaries (Enjolras refused to call them rioters, even in his own head). Bossuet’s bald head had a cut extending from the crown to his brow, as if someone had taken a paring knife to it; Joly had his scarf wrapped around it to stop the bleeding even though he himself had a black eye and seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack. Bahorel sat nursing an injured arm alone, the others were nowhere in sight. Four club members and the leader’s innocent bystander wasn’t a bad takeaway, though Enjolras wished with all his might that Grantaire had gotten away.

He and the officers stayed completely silent as they drove through the afternoon traffic of the busy city. Once inside the station, he was uncuffed and shoved into a solitary holding cell. The other cells, which led down the hallway to his right, would be stuffed to the brim, but the Fearless Leader was kept alone. It was the standard procedure and hopefully Javert would be back to take him into interrogation sooner rather than later; he just wanted to get it over with so he could get out. Though he _was_ a bit miffed that Bahorel was in the cage as one of them always covered bail for everyone who couldn’t get out via friends or family, so who would do it now that they were both imprisoned? He sat on the hard bed, but stood straight and proud as Perkins opened the cell door.

“Let’s go, pretty boy,” he said, “Chief Javert’s waiting.” He was cuffed again, so roughly and tightly that his wrists started bleeding and his fingers went dead from his circulation being cut off. Perkins kept an iron grip on his bicep, fingernails digging into his skin. If there was a cop that hated him and everything he stood for, it was the pasty, chubby man currently marching him into the interrogation room. It was a lot of ceremony for a simple civil disobedience charge, but Enjolras had long since grown used to Javert’s theatrics. Pushed into the metal chair and chained to the table, Enjolras looked into the hard, familiar eyes of the chief of police. Javert clicked on his recorder.

“Mr. Enjolras,” he said in a deadpan, “here we are again. You know the drill, everything you say can and will be held against you in a court of Law, if you would like an attorney present you may have one...” And so on and so forth. Enjolras had heard the Miranda Rights so often that he had them memorized, though he wasn’t entirely sure why Javert used them if he wasn’t actually, going-to-jail arrested. The chief tended to treat every case like a serial killer specializing in kindergarteners, but Enjolras knew him to be a generally fair man or at least one that would respect Enjolras’ rights under the Law. Many of the officers took one look at Enjolras and pulled a gun, but Javert held a tight grip on them, with a near one hundred percent rate of bringing in lawbreakers alive. Enjolras held his gaze, though the eyes like flint bore into his soul.

“What are the charges?” he asked.

“No formal ones released yet, not until after we talk a little. For now, they’re: causing a public disturbance, civil disobedience, conspiracy to commit a crime, and inciting violence. Do you have anything to say to that?” Javert inquired. Conspiracy? That was a serious charge, but Enjolras was confused as to how he had earned it.

“The rally got out of control, even out of my control, I know. We didn’t expect that many people and didn’t have adequate security, which won’t happen again, I swear. What crime was I conspiring to commit?” Javert rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“My officers have had an anonymous tip-off that your mob was a cover to garner support and a distraction for the murder of the university president, Thomas J. Foreman,” Javert said, then snapped forward, “Tell me, how many of your little group have escaped? Give me a number and their names, then you may call your second in command and call off the attack.” This charge was baffling, not to mention completely false. Enjolras stayed straight-faced and began listing off the names of the club members.

“Anthony Combeferre, Marcus Courfeyrac, Cosette Fauchelevant, Marius Pontmercy, Alexander Feuilly, Jehan Prouvaire, and Musichetta Blanche are the only ones that I think didn’t get taken in. If you have people looking for them, they’re at the Café Musain, the one on campus, waiting for someone to call and say what’s going on. Please, can I still make the call?” he asked. Javert studied his face, suspicion in his eyes, then slammed his fist on the desk.

“You’re lying. Tell me where they are!” he shouted. Enjolras, who had had enough, was now to the point beyond yelling back.

“You got me there. I don’t for sure know Cosette’s last name so I just kinda assumed that it was the same as the one her dad uses. I told you, they’re all at the Musian, why would I lie?” he asked, desperate for Javert to believe him. He also hoped to god that Combeferre hadn’t made an executive decision and moved the group elsewhere. Javert sighed and slid the phone on the desk towards him.

“You have two minutes, and I swear, if you’re lying to me then I will ensure that you never see the outside of a prison for the rest of your life. Got it?” he said sharply. Enjolras nodded and Javert radioed a couple of officers to check out the small café. Combeferre picked up on the second ring.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre said. Enjolras could hear someone crying close by in the background, plus a snippet of the odd Gregorian chanting music that Valjean always had playing in the café after hours. He breathed a sigh of relief that they had stuck to the plan and stayed where he had claimed they would be.

“Yup. Look, two, three officers are heading over there right now and you have to be the one to tell them everything that they want to know about the rally. Is anyone hurt?” he asked. He heard another sharp cry.

“Courf was trying to guide someone out when he was shoved into a bunch of broken beer glass. I’m digging it out of his hands now but we _really_ have to up the security and get better at checking for alcohol at the next protest. Nobody else has more than bruises and scrapes from breaking up the riot.” So they all had made it out okay, and Javert, who was listening in, got to hear that their intentions weren’t violent. Enjolras swallowed his pride and took the plunge, the one he dreaded.

“Man, can you call my parents for bail? Bahorel’s locked up too and there’s no one else who can pay it besides us.” He hated asking for more money, but there was no way he was getting out otherwise.

“Sure. Your dad is not gonna be happy that you’re in jail again,” Combeferre admonished. He was right, of course. A constantly arrested or about-to-be-arrested son did not look good for two high-profile lawyers, so Enjolras took care to not have them cover his bail very often so they wouldn’t be associated with his civil disobedience. If he ever did do something serious, however, at least he’d have one hell of a legal team.

 Javert motioned for Enjolras to wrap it up, so he said his goodbyes and put the phone back into the cradle.

“Bail will be posted tomorrow afternoon for you lot. You’ll be back in here to talk bright and early, then the rest of your friends.” Javert said. It was nothing that Enjolras hadn’t done before, minus the afternoon part. Whatever Javert was thinking, it was clear that this wasn’t over yet.

“What about the charges?” he asked. Surely Javert would realize how wrong the department had been about some of them. Enjolras hoped.

“For now, you’re cleared of conspiracy and inciting violence. The other two stand,” the chief said. Enjolras shrugged.

“That’s fair. Do I have to go back to solitary?” Enjolras really didn’t want to sleep alone, especially with the deputy prowling around. His death would be labelled a tragic suicide, unavoidable really, if he was left without another witness to see how much the cops hated him.

“Perkins!” Javert shouted, “Get in here!” The short cop burst in.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, his smarmy moustache twitching like a rat’s whiskers. Enjolras held a special place of hatred for the deputy, who treated him like a rabid dog instead of a human being. He never felt more degraded than when Perkins glared at him with his small, watery blue eyes.

“Put him in holding cell number two. Tomorrow once we’re through with him, I want that big one we took in with him, the scarred one, sitting across from me at nine a.m. sharp. Now get out of my sight.” Javert waved them away and started pouring over a huge stack of paperwork.

“He’s not even in the club! Please, there’s no need to bring him in here,” Enjolras protested. Javert didn’t even look up.

“Never saw him at one of your rallies before, and I remember every face there. He was on the stage viciously defending you and you claim he’s not important? We’ll see. Take him away, Perkins.” The deputy grabbed Enjolras’ arm again and, after uncuffing him from the table and locking his hands behind his back, marched him to holding cell number two and threw him in.

To his surprise, this particular cell wasn’t full of protestors. Instead, all it held besides himself was a pair of men passed out on the bench and reeking of alcohol. Though it wasn’t technically solitary, it might as well have been. As he settled on the floor as far from the stench as possible, he wondered how his friends were holding up in the other cells. Had Bossuet stopped bleeding at last? Did Bahorel break his arm, or was it just sprained? Was Grantaire regretting every association that he held with Enjolras? The leader didn’t know. He wrapped his carmine hoodie tighter around his frame, the floor freezing beneath him. He drifted off into a lonely night, the last sight the sparkling moon and stars outside of the barred cell window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next Grantaire chapter will be up as soon as I am able. 
> 
> Heads up:  
> Chapter 15 will be a special chapter from Courfeyrac's POV  
> Chapter 16 will be an Enjolras chapter   
> Chapter 17 will be entirely a flashback, experienced by Grantaire some seven years before the main story
> 
> Before that three-part arc, however, things will proceed as usual. After this next Grantaire chapter, we won't see another of his main-story perspective until Chapter 19. Apologies to those who prefer his chapters, but that's the way it has to be.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	13. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire comes up close and personal with the dichotomy of good and evil.

A least Bossuet’s bleeding had finally stopped by the time the deputy showed up in Grantaire’s cell. He had spent a sleepless night ensuring that Bossuet wasn’t going to bleed out or worse, fall asleep; the resulting coma might have been one that he’d never wake up from. Grantaire used his personal, nonmedical judgement to determine that he was out of the immediate death zone, but he wasn’t exactly a doctor. If only Joly hadn’t been separated and sent to holding cell four, he might be more certain of Bossuet’s condition; if only Combeferre had been a tiny bit slower on getting the speakers out! In holding cell number three, nearly all of the forty or so occupants were bruised, bleeding, or broken, and now, having seen him take a sand with their leader, looked to him for guidance or relief. Bossuet by far had been the most unlucky, as there were no medical students in the cell to help his heavily gushing scalp. Grantaire could help some of the others, having had much experience cleaning up after fights, but didn’t know a near-death brain from a healthy one. He wasn’t _seeing_ brain, so he took that as a good sign that Bossuet would be okay. He gave the injured man a sharp jab in the ribs to wake him up, trying to ignore the penetrating stench of blood in the cell. He had finally closed his weary eyes and was beginning to rest when….

“You! Ugly! Let’s move it,” the rat-faced cop said. Grantaire instructed another relatively unharmed cellmate to watch Bossuet and keep him awake by any means necessary. He stood a good foot taller than the cruel little man, but for once wasn’t willing to physically fight. It had been twelve hours since his last drink, and he felt the cold fingers running across his body and the pounding need in his head. Took the fight right out of him, sobriety. He was taken to a room, a grey-walled one with a large metal desk and two chairs, that would look commonplace in any cop drama on TV. And he had thought it was an exaggeration. He was cuffed to the desk across from another officer, who he assumed to be the chief.

“State your name and place of residence,” the cop said in a clear, cold voice. At least he didn’t bullshit why they were there; Grantaire could respect that. There _was_ a file with his name on it sitting on the cop’s desk, so he wasn’t sure why he was even asked.

“Hamza Grantaire, room 22 at the Casa de Ortiz motel,” he said, deadpan. The cop made a note of it, though he had a tape recorder running.

“This interview is being recorded by Chief of Police Fabian Javert, on February 6th, 2016 at ten o’clock in the morning,” the chief said, just as deadpan, “How long have you been in New York City?” Grantaire studied Javert, unsure if he knew more than he was letting on. He really hoped that they would stick to discussing the rally and not his entire police record.

“Three months or so. Can’t remember the exact date, but it was at the end of November.” Javert watched him carefully, as if he would actually lie on an official police record.

“Can anybody verify that, Mr. Grantaire?” he asked. Grantaire briefly considered giving him Eponine or Thenardier’s name, but thought better of it once he remembered how Thenardier made the majority of his money: smack, embezzlement, and unproven child prostitution. With a rap sheet like that, Grantaire would be murdered if he said anything. Who else had he talked to that day?

“Rebecca Leon at Mercy Hospital hired me that day to be a janitor and Mrs. Vasquez first rented the room to me then. Look, am I being charged with anything?” he asked. What exact legal power did Javert hold over him without an official arrest and charge? Did he actually have to give any information?

“Mr. Enjolras and his friends have been arrested at least a dozen times each for various public disturbances, but we’ve never picked you up before. I’d like to establish your relationship to the group and its leader, then you’re free to go,” Javert said, pulling out a sheet from Grantaire’s folder, “Now, besides a few drunk and disorderlies in a few different cities, your record is spotless. Why would a good citizen choose to associate with those people?” Grantaire forced himself to stay calm, though he was internally shaking with anger. The Friends of the ABC may have been ridiculously optimistic and misguided, but they weren’t the domestic terrorists that Javert seemed to think that they were. How would he explain his relationship to a group he wasn’t even a part of? He tried to determine whether Javert was overtly homophobic or not; on one hand, cops were generally total bastards and he wouldn’t put it past them, on the other, this was New York and not a miniscule town in Texas.

“I’m dating Enjolras and came out to see what his club was doing. That’s all. I’m not in the club and personally think their goals are pretty stupid since they’re never gonna happen. Petitions and rallies don’t solve shit, but try telling them that.” Javert made another note, then sighed and shut off the recorder.

“No charges are on you, and your bail has been posted by J. Enjolras, released less than an hour ago. If I may advise you, don’t get tangled up in this group. I sincerely hope we don’t see each other in here again, Mr. Grantaire,” Javert said. He uncuffed Grantaire and sent him to the receiving desk to collect his coat. Everybody else was slowly being released, though he noted that none except for the group members were exiting interrogation rooms. Joly and Bossuet were leaning heavily on Bahorel, Joly from having lost his cane and gone without the medicine for his leg problems, Bossuet from loss of blood and exhaustion. It was appalling, having two extremely injured prisoners thrown in a cell   overnight without medical attention. It made Grantaire hate the police even more than he already did. He put on his coat and took Joly; Bahorel gave him a relieved look, as even someone as strong as him had trouble practically carrying two grown men.

“Those assholes wouldn’t go get his damn meds, even when I yelled at them and told them his address and where they were,” Bahorel explained as they exited the station. Joly was so ashen pale from the pain of walking that Grantaire stopped them and slung him all the way up on his back like a human backpack.

Outside the police station, two taxis were waiting for them. One held Courfeyrac, who took one look at Bossuet and declared that they were going to the hospital. Bahorel went with them, but not before asking Grantaire to give Feuilly a call to tell him that Bahorel wouldn’t be home that evening. The other taxi held Combeferre and took the three of them to Joly and his two roommates’ tiny apartment.

Musichetta was sitting right in the main area when they got inside, but jumped to her feet when she saw them. Joly, on the other hand, was barely through the doorway when he collapsed. Spasms shook his slender body and he cried in agony as his muscles started seizing up; Grantaire and Musichetta watched, frozen in terror, but Combeferre was immediately on the ground next to him, taking his pulse and holding his head still.

“His medicine, what kind is it?” Combeferre asked through gritted teeth.

“Pills. I think he has a few emergency shots as well but I don’t know how to give them to him,” Musichetta said, voice shaking but she was less frozen. Combeferre waved her away, eyes still fixed on Joly.

“Get the shots,” he said to her, then muttered, “Thank _God_ I’m a fucking doctor.” Grantaire swept everything off of the table at Combeferre’s instruction, then lifted Joly up on it. The sick man was now tightly curled in fetal position, so Grantaire had to physically force him to lie flat, all the while feeling his pulse getting faster and faster.

Combeferre ripped open Joly’s shirt as soon as Musichetta was back with the two shots. Combeferre flicked the cap off of the green one and slammed it down right over Joly’s heart; he depressed the plunger, then yanked that one out and did the same with the blue one. Gradually, Joly’s body relaxed and Combeferre declared him stable. Grantaire carried him into his bed, where Musichetta sat with him as he slept. The two other men sat out in the living room, still shaken.

“So, what exactly was that?” Grantaire asked. Though he had seen Combeferre around for the past three months, the man was still practically a stranger to him. The doctor cleaned his glasses, then sagged back into the couch.

“Joly has a serious muscular condition and missing his medicine almost stopped his heart. The green meds control the actual condition, but he needs the blue ones to manage the pain in his legs where the condition is a constant annoyance,” Combeferre said. It was sobering, the idea of losing one of his best friends because some idiot cops refused to do the right thing. Though it had been a somewhat awkward taxi ride there, he had never been more grateful for a human’s existence than Combeferre in that moment.

“It’s good that you came and not Enjolras or Joly would be dead, wouldn’t he?” Grantaire asked. Combeferre gave him a hint of a smile.

“Pure luck, I swear. His family trapped him in a lunch and discussion about poor life choices, so I’ve taken over management for today.” Grantaire had the thought that he probably did much more management than he gave himself credit for. Enjolras and Courfeyrac were wildly ambitious and not very good at planning the journey as they only saw the goal. Combeferre, Grantaire saw, was absolutely vital in executing the group’s plans in a realistic manner. The man sitting next to him, now glued to a book on ancient Greek mythology and eagerly thumbing through it, was something that Grantaire had met very rarely: a truly good man. As much as he loved his shining Helios, Asclepius was whom he was glad to have around.

“They’re lucky to have you, you know that, right?” he asked. Combeferre made a hum of approval, still fixed on his book. Well, if he was busy, Grantaire snuggled back on his end of the couch and closed his weary eyes, if only for a moment…

He woke up alone and immediately looked at his phone, panicking when he saw that it was seven p.m. He scrambled out of the thick blanket that he had been covered in, and saw that a note in almost illegible handwriting had been placed on his chest.

**Called Feuilly for Bahorel. Soup is in their fridge. Told Musichetta to keep Joly home tonight and make sure he gets his meds. BTW Bossuet is in stable condition and will be discharged tomorrow morning. And E wanted me to write hi, sorry he couldn’t pick you up, see you at the Corinth tonight. –A. Combeferre.**

In Grantaire’s mind, kindness was a rare commodity.  If that was true, Combeferre would be the richest man alive. He couldn’t fathom why he would give a damn about who amounted to a complete stranger, but that seemed to be his way. What _was_ Combeferre’s reason for being the activist he was? Clearly Enjolras had some sort of weird savior complex, but Combeferre seemed much more reasonable and realistic. Why would someone who was so logical join a bunch of useless causes? Could he not see that besides a fun diversion for a bunch of college students, nothing was going to actually change? Take the rally turned riot for instance. Sure, they showed up, made a lot of noise, and got arrested, but ultimately, the university would completely ignore them because authority figures don’t like being told that they’re wrong. If there’s one thing they hated more than being wrong, it was giving up their power over the little people. He’d long since lost his faith in any higher power than himself, including the justice system, the government, and even Allah. All you could do was live your daily life and hope that the majority didn’t step on your neck too hard.

After helping himself to some soup and a bottle of Bossuet’s Heineken, he silently left the apartment and found a subway station that would take him almost directly to the Corinth, no time to stop and change. By this point, he didn’t care how much Enjolras might want them to go back to his dorm room, he was going home. He stopped suddenly outside of the bar. Home. When had he started to think of the city and that shitty motel room as _home_? He hadn’t really thought of any of his lodgings as home since his parents’ little house in Texas. The though scared him, that now he had a vague idea of roots somewhere. No. No. He needed to get out before the city and certain occupants really had their hooks in him.

The bar was hot and crowded as usual, the smoke a permanent feature. He found Thenardier quickly, apologized for his lateness, and pushed through the crowd to the stage. Once up, he stripped off his coat, acutely aware of the wild whoops from the audience. Well, since they were already in about the third stage of drunkenness and he had missed getting tips for a few nights, he pulled off his shirt as well and stood in only his black jeans and boots. Crumpled bills and cheers flew at the stage, his incredibly average torso apparently making quite the impact on the smashed bar patrons. A strangled yelp directly below him drew his attention; he looked down to see a familiar blonde head staring directly at his torso. The laughs from his bandmates behind him drew his own rarely used full-body laughter, making him pumped up as he began the first song.

By the time the first set was done, he had a body glistening and flushed, a now subdued audience, and two hundred dollars in cash. He picked up his shirt, laughing again when a very clear voice shouted to keep it off. He handed fifty off to each of his bandmates, then put the rest in his pocket and slipped off the stage, pulling on his shirt as he did so.

“Let me buy you a drink,” a smooth, honeyed voice said behind him. He turned, expecting to see Enjolras, but instead found almost the exact reverse. This man bore a striking resemblance to the Angel, with the same fine facial features, luscious lips, and slender build. However, he was stark pale where Enjolras was dark, raven haired where Enjolras was all blonde curls, and his eyes were flat black and cold where Enjolras’ were a dancing blue.  

“Sorry, um, friend, but I’m taken,” Grantaire said. The devilishly handsome man gave a disappointed little sigh.

“Ah well, care for a drink anyway? Just a drink,” he teased. Something about him was oddly off-putting; Grantaire would order an unopened bottle and not let it out of his sight.

“Eh, why not?  Name’s Grantaire, by the way.” They pushed to the bar.

“Montparnasse. Vodka cranberry, Thenardier,” the young man said. Montparnasse? Where had he heard that name- oh yes, his predecessor in the band. The barman gave a hoot at his voice.

“Well, look who’s outta the clink! Only four months this time?” he asked as he mixed the drink. Montparnasse shrugged.

“Good behavior and a healthy amount of blow will get you far in life, my friend. Cleared out this morning but I better lay low for a while, you understand?” Thenardier slid Grantaire his usual bottle of Jack Daniels and nodded.

“You want outta the business?” he asked seriously, giving Grantaire the side-eye. He pretended not to notice.

“Fuck no, I’m richer than God, man. Your lazy ass can take a turn out on the street while I stay here and run things. Where’s Eponine, I wanna see her,” Montparnasse said, looking for the girl. Grantaire sipped whiskey, wondering why Enjolras hadn’t come over to talk to him yet. Shit, he did not need to hear the dirty little secrets of Thenardier’s business.

“Ungrateful brat lit out months ago. Don’t know where she went but I been losing money ever since; lucky ‘Zelma’s a good girl who obeys her dad,” Thenardier huffed. So he hadn’t found Eponine yet, a fact that Grantaire was grateful for. Poor Azelma, still too terrified of her father’s wrath to dream of escaping the misery and pain. But what could he do? He had given money, begged her to leave, what else could he do? Call the cops? He’d be as implicated as any of the rest of them, except maybe Marius. He alone knew nothing about the operation; Claquesous and Johnny Babet were directly involved and Grantaire was already so suspicious-looking as an ugly drifter that even if he didn’t know about the business, he’d be imprisoned.

“Don’t bother looking for her,” Montparnasse said, “Probably is on the street or left the city. More importantly, Guelemer and Brujon are locked up for good for that job they did on old Mabeuf. Only witness was some guy, looked like a gypsy, about twenty or so.” There was one person who fit that description, someone who appeared to be trying to make small talk with Enjolras across the room.

“He’s here. Kept him close, was almost too easy. Don’t suspect a thing, probably won’t go running to the police if he sees you. You’re safe,” Thenardier said. At least Marius wouldn’t end up dead in a ditch at the hands of the man who Grantaire now desperately wanted to get away from. At least Montparnasse hadn’t spilled the beans on Eponine’s whereabouts, which would get her killed or worse. Grantaire had long since learned that killed was not the worst thing that could happen to a person. With the way he had pieced together how far their twisted little gang would go to secure what they thought of as their property, Eponine would be better off dead.

“What about our friend here?” Montparnasse said, as if Grantaire couldn’t hear him. Thenardier snorted.

“Does he really look like the type to rat us out? He’d be tied into it, I’ll make sure of that,” Thenardier said. He had a point.

“Look, I’ll be out of here in a few months at the most anyway. I don’t give a shit what you do,” Grantaire injected. Some minor drug gang wasn’t going to bother him forever, but a lifetime in prison for being accused of being an accomplice sure would.

“Hey, you,” Enjolras’ voice said as he snaked his arms around Grantaire. Oh shit, he should _not_ be here for this conversation. He turned around and gave him a quick kiss.

“Could you give us a minute? I’ll be over to your table, okay?” he asked. Enjolras frowned at him, but left to go talk to Marius, who was now sitting on the stage awkwardly fiddling with his shoe. Grantaire couldn’t even imagine what they had to talk about. The weather? The club? Prices? The only thing he could think of that they had in common was a complete inability to drink and hold their liquor.

“Your man is hot, good for you,” Montparnasse said, “Now back to business. Grantaire, you seem like we can trust you. And since all of our muscle is now behind bars, want in our deal? Don’t look like that, you wouldn’t touch the supply, but I need a big guy to accompany me on major transactions. How about it?” Wow, this was literally exactly what those stupid videos in junior high had warned him about; a murderous drug dealer wanted to be business partners.

“Tempting, but I’m gonna have to pass on that one. I’ll keep things quiet, nobig deal, but I have enough problems without adding another. Cheers,” he said, raising his bottle. Montparnasse clinked his glass against it and Grantaire booked it out of there.

“Sorry about that, Angel. How did things go after the riot? Is everyone okay?” he asked.

“Courfeyrac’s hands are gauze mittens now and Bossuet’s spending the night in the hospital, but everyone else got out okay. What about you?”

“I smell like blood and jail, but you know, it’s all good. Did you get thrown out of the university for being a nuisance?” Grantaire poked further, taking another swallow. Enjolras slammed his fist on the table, causing several patrons to look up with bleary eyes.

“No, but they completely ignored the rally _and_ the petition! This is not democratic!” he vented. Well, Grantaire thought, what was Enjolras expecting? The reality was that authority figures were a bag of dicks and that Enjolras was lucky that they didn’t toss him out for trying to rebel against their absolute power.

“Nope, but schools _aren’t_   democratic. Old rich assholes are and always will be in charge of everything and we can’t change that they’ll never see people like Feuilly as anything more than a confused freak. The sooner you learn that, the happier you’ll be,” Grantaire burst out. The pleasant buzz running through his veins had turned into what felt like a river of mud, slow and muddled. Enjolras’ shocked face didn’t faze him; he needed to hear the truth sometimes.

“Are you happy, R? Are you _fucking_ happy?” Enjolras spat, “No, just sit there with your goddamn bottle and feel sorry for yourself, ‘cause that’s what you do, isn’t it? What do you stand for? What do you fall for? You don’t stand for anything, you don’t think, you don’t live, you don’t die!” Their argument was starting to draw a crowd. Thenardier appeared and tried to push them apart, standing between them, a full head shorter, with a hand on each of their chests. Grantaire ignored him.

“Do you want me to die? Oh, let me die _here_!” he shouted back, “You laugh at me, you think I’m stupid, you _pity_ me! Well I don’t want that, I don’t want you!” Enjolras seemed to be struck dumb. Without another word, Enjolras turned on his heel and pushed his way out of the bar. Grantaire ignored the stares and made his way to a table in the back with his half empty bottle. He settled into the darkness, sipping and letting oblivion snatch him away from life again, alone and miserable as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we finally meet my dear Monty! How I have longed to introduce him, but didn't want to just bowl him over. Expect an Enjolras chapter next, taking place the day before all hell breaks loose.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	14. Enjolras in Repose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras spends an ordinary, nice day in the company of his two best friends.

His feet pounded the pavement as Enjolras went for his daily run around Central Park on the morning of May 21st, Combeferre several yards ahead of him. Oh no, he was _not_ going to let him win again. Despite the fact that he actively knew that Combeferre was much, much faster than he was, he still gave it a valiant effort to try to finish the three laps first. He increased his speed to no avail; when he finally finished the final stretch, Ferre was already sitting against a tree, a smug look on his face.

“Well, well, glad you decided to show up,” he said, gently teasing. Enjolras slid to the ground next to him, his breathing ragged.

“Shut up,” he heaved out. The past three months had conditioned him to not get winded after only a few minutes, but he was nowhere near Combeferre’s level of endurance. Combeferre had been a runner practically his entire life and he said he was happy to have a buddy now. Enjolras thought that he was lying, since he slowed him down so much, but the sentiment was nice anyway. The burn from the run always chased out any bad feelings about the person he left behind, the person who he hadn’t had contact with since February. He didn’t even know if Grantaire was still in New York, but that didn’t matter anymore. Or so he told himself.

“I think you’re getting faster every day,” Combeferre said, “You almost caught up today. Wanna get coffee somewhere?” That was damn charitable of him, but it was like he was born to encourage other people to do their best even if he _was_ the best.

“Hell yes. I’ll buy today,” Enjolras said. Combeferre helped him to his feet and they started off in the direction of a café near Central Park, the one they visited every morning. Enjolras felt a little guilty buying from there instead of from Valjean, but the Musain was so far away that they’d have to take the subway to reach it. They could’ve just run around the campus, but Combeferre loved Central Park so much that they spent a lot of time even getting there to run every morning. Besides, Mrs. Houcheloup, who was Valjean’s new business partner, like Les Amis considerably less than Valjean did. Enjolras could see why she was necessary since the café expanded; in Valjean’s own words he was “too darn old to run it by himself anymore.” There were also two new waitresses (her daughters) in addition to Cosette named Matelote and Gibelote.

“The usual, fellas?” the elderly owner, Tom Brandy, asked. He, as he had told them one morning, had been the captain of an all-black battalion way back in World War II when he was only nineteen. Enjolras thought that it must be hard to be that old, to have your friends die and leave you behind.

“That’d be great, Tom,” Combeferre said. The coffee wasn’t particularly hot or particularly good, but the old man had so little business anymore that Combeferre insisted that his was the shop they visit. He had owned the tiny café since 1945 and it would be terrible to lose seventy-one years later.

“You have stuff to do today?” Enjolras asked as they drank their lukewarm coffee on a park bench.

“Yup. Going to that neat exhibit on Ancient Greece with Jehan and, um, a friend,” Combeferre replied, looking down at his hands. Why was he acting so shifty?

“Who else?” Enjolras asked. Combeferre still wouldn’t look at him.

“Nobody important,” he squeaked. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that, right? Seriously, who is it, Vladimir Putin? Donald Trump? The entire NRA?” There was a long pause before Combeferre finally answered.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre muttered. They were hanging out together? Since when? That alone was weird enough, and Enjolras was honestly a little hurt that his best friend was hanging out with his ex. Were they technically exes even if they never officially called it quits and just stopped talking? It was still a sucky thing to do, but damn if he was going to tell a hyperintrovert not to make more friends.

“You should’ve just said so, I don’t mind. Courf and I wanted to see _Zombespierre_ today anyway. You know, the straight-to-Netflix one with the French Revolution zombies.” It seriously looked awesome, if a bit cheesy. There was nothing the two of them loved more than watch every bad B horror movie that came out, and Courf was betting that this one would top _Sharknado._ They rarely actually saw the ones that went to theaters, since those were typically decent and thus couldn’t be as mercilessly mocked as the god-awful horror films that were in never-ending streaming supply.

“Damn, I want to come with you. I heard a dude gets his leg eaten by King Louis’ decapitated head and there is no way that isn’t the coolest thing I’ll ever see. Next time?” Combeferre asked. He didn’t always want to join in on their mutual obsession, but it was even more fun when he did.

“Of course,” Enjolras said, “You know we usually watch them twice. As Courf always says-“

“Once for the plot, once for the jabs, unless the plot is so bad that we can do both on the first viewing,” Combeferre finished. Courfeyrac’s Youtube channel was nothing but videos of them jabbing various movies, each one starting with this mantra. For some reason, he had over a million subscribers and every comment section on a video without all three of them was full of questions about where the others were. Enjolras tried to add a little social commentary to them to take advantage of the huge audience.

They threw away their empty cups and started walking out of the park. Combeferre went down the subway stairs whistling; Enjolras fondly watched him go. He himself walked another block or two to the station that would take him home. The train wasn’t completely packed, at least, so he rested his tired muscles as the lights of each stop flashed by the window.

He got off on the edge of the campus, stopping in the Musain on his way to his dorm room. Javert was in there, gloomily picking at a madeleine; he gave him the evil eye when he walked in. Valjean was nowhere to be found, so Gibelote was the one who served him.

“Two grande lattes, please. With whipped cream,” he said, handing over a ten dollar bill. She handed him back five, which he put in the Donation Jar. Valjean kept two jars on the counter, one for tips and one for donations for the homeless people that came to him for help. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to “attract vagabonds” as stated by the university policy and instead give to a university-sponsored (read: CEO run so the homeless rarely actually receive help) institution, but the campus police turned the other cheek. There was a rumor that they were following superior orders from a certain chief of police, who wouldn’t admit to anything, but what mattered was that Valjean was allowed to continue giving away as much food, money, and other necessities as he saw fit. Why Javert, a man who seemed to love the Law more than everything else, would willingly ignore a rule-breaker was beyond Enjolras, but he was willing to bet that there was something in the city or state laws that made what the campus was doing illegal.

He took the drinks back to his room, where Courfeyrac sat waiting in front of their TV, the bean bags already out and the show ready to start. He also had made an enormous bowl of popcorn for the two of them.

“Ready to get spooooooooooky?” Courf asked.

“You bet your ass I am. Pass the popcorn,” he replied, as he always did. He watched, enthralled, as the movie opened with a bunch of idiot white teens reading aloud what sounded like the French Declaration on the Rights of Man and the Citizen. Yikes, Hollywood was really running out of ideas.

“Oh my god, is that supposed to be Robespierre? Wasn’t his head chopped off or something?” Courf asked when the shaky-cam zoomed into a grave that said “Robsperry” with a dead hand punching through the ground. The zombie, dressed in vaguely 1700s regalia, crawled out of the grave into the frenzied thunderstorm, his powdered wig impeccably placed on his rotting face.

“I’m more worried about the director not bothering to spell his name right,” Enjolras said, “And where the hell is this supposed to be set? In like Minnesota, right, so why is Robespierre even ther- _oh my god there’s the head!_ ” The head of King Louis XVI had somehow chomped its way out of the gargantuan sepulcher in a marble cartoon-style explosion, his headless body following close behind with that of his wife and little sons.

“Did they not have the budget for her head or what? Sweet baby Jesus, it’s only been a half hour and I already hate everyone who allowed this to be made,”Courf groaned, dramatically throwing his hand over his eyes.

“Wanna turn it off until Ferre is here and we film it? I don’t think I can sit through it twice,” Enjolras asked. Courf flipped it off and switched over to the Left 4 Dead game that was already in the X-Box. It was the same one they had played a billion times before, but it let them talk as they played.

“Behind you!” Courf shouted as they viciously slaughtered hordes of the undead. Enjolras shot a Boomer right between the eyes and they continued into the parking garage.

“Guess it’s good Ferre isn’t here, he sucks at this game,” Enjolras said. Mario games? Ferre beat them all. Skyrim? Fantastic. The old Legend of Zelda games? He was amazing. Hand him a controller and a first-person shooter, however, and it would be better to play with a drunken goat. Courf was convinced he was doing it on purpose because he hated guns and wouldn’t even touch one in a game; Enjolras honestly thought that he just couldn’t get the hang of them and wouldn’t admit defeat.

“How many times did he shoot you the last time we made him play? Or me?” Courf dodged a zombie as the crying that signaled that the witch was near began to play out of the speakers.

“Ten, twenty? I don’t know, we all die immediately every single time because he panics. Don’t judge him too hard, it’s not his fault he’s gentle about violence,” Enjolras said. The man couldn’t even kill a spider, so how could they expect him to have fun fighting zombies? The apocalypse wasn’t going to treat him well, so he and Courf had joked that they would be his protectors no matter what. Courf paused the game when his phone went off with a text reminder.

“Shit, I have Communications in like ten minutes and my professor’s a dick who locks his door. See you later tonight, okay?” he said. He grabbed his backpack and hoodie, dashing out the door and leaving Enjolras alone. He turned off the game and opened his Criminal Justice book to pass the time until his math class.

Two hours passed like a century as, despite being a hardworking student, he wished he was doing literally anything else. He made himself microwave macaroni and cheese, never stopping reading for a minute no matter how much he hated it. He needed to draft a new manifesto for the club’s idea to do a toiletries drive for the area’s homeless, needed to ugh, make amends with Grantaire, needed to… but no, he needed to actually do the reading for his class. Finally, he gave himself leave to go to the eight p.m. class, which was really a horrible time but he had no other time slot available. Maybe since he had already finished his homework for the night, he might get to go to bed before eleven, a rare treat. It was funny how staying up as late as he wanted got less and less appealing as he got older.

Math class dragged on and on like usual; he was so mind-numbingly bored in it that he was tempted to walk out and never come back. But no, he reminded himself, you need this last credit to graduate before you can move on to actual law school and you were stupid enough to leave it until your last year. He was torn about what sort of lawyer he would be, but he was sure he’d figure it out by the time he was totally out of school. A public defender sounded pretty good, but he might have to defend a pedophile or something and that revolted him. A private lawyer would let him pick and choose his clients, but the only people who could afford private lawyers were the incredibly wealthy and he did want to help the poorer people who really needed the help. Oh well, he’d decide someday.

The bell tower on campus chimed that it was now nine thirty, so his professor dismissed the class. By this point he was so tired that even going to do research in the library didn’t sound appealing like it usually did. Was there anything else he absolutely had to get done that night or could it wait until tomorrow? He and Courfeyrac needed to work on their joint Political Science project, but Courf probably wouldn’t be back that night and there was no way Enjolras was staying awake all night to wait for him.

It was ten thirty by the time he finally got home, into his pajamas, and between his sheets. It was eleven by the time he finally got to sleep.

It was just after midnight when he was abruptly woken up by a panicked, frenzied phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo-hoo! Next is the three-part storyline called Shatterbelt, starting with a special chapter seen through Courfeyrac's eyes.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	15. Shatterbelt: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Courfeyrac spend an evening together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS FROM COURFEYRAC'S PERSPECTIVE.

It was ten thirty p.m on the night of May 21st when Courfeyrac met Combeferre at the Corinth for burgers and drinks. He, of course, had intended to go alone and get lucky, but Ferre had texted him to see if he wanted to grab a bite. It was killing two birds with one stone if he really stopped to think about it. Since it was a Tuesday night, the bar was almost empty save for them, the band, and a couple of shady looking dudes at the corner table. One of them was hot in a cruel sort of way, but Courf wasn’t _that_ comfortable hitting on guys who looked like they could kill him if he had guessed wrong and they were really super straight. It wasn’t like he was particularly good at guessing; he still wasn’t entirely sure about whether he could flirt with Marius, who was either quiet about his sexuality or the gayest straight man Courf had ever met. Better to play it safe and just enjoy Ferre’s company.

“You still thinking about asking ‘Ponine out?” he asked, sipping his beer. Ferre had had her number for almost four months now. Honestly, it was time to suck it up and go for it already.

“Nah. I’ve moved on, man, like I’m nothing but a super chill candle in the wind who totally doesn’t obsess over people. Not me, that’s for sure,” Ferre said, staring down at his hands. Ugh, why did any of Courf’s friends think they could successfully lie to him? He could always tell how people were feeling by their tells, and Ferre’s was super obvious.

“You were born without chill and you know it. Seriously, bro, either ask her out or don’t, but stop torturing yourself over it,” Courfeyrac said. He was going to have to give this same talk to Enjolras, who he could tell still wasn’t over Grantaire yet. If he was, he would’ve long since deleted Grantaire’s  number from his phone and stopped asking about him.

“Have they finally got a new set list here? Cause the old one was getting real old, real fast,” Combeferre said. Okay, dropping the subject of romance then; Courf could respect that boundary. He listened to the heavy beat of ‘Have a Drink on Me’ and noticed Grantaire looked more animated than he had at the mic for months. It was now eleven o’clock, and the first set had finally finished.

“Taire told me he and Marius have been begging the drummer to let them do literally anything else. Grantaire said, and I quote, ‘I love the Stones, but if I have to sing that fucking song one more time I’m gonna lose my shit entirely’. Apparently the owner’s letting them change it a couple songs at a time.” Even though Grantaire was his best friend’s ex, it wasn’t like Courf totally hated the guy’s guts or anything because things hadn’t worked out with Enjolras. Hell, he still hung out sometimes with most of his own exes, so he wasn’t going to not chill with a guy who had just sort of faded out of the group.

“As long as they’re happy, I guess. Anyway-“ Combeferre stated, but was cut off by the greasy bar owner.

“Everyone out! We’re closing up early tonight,” he shouted into the mic. Courfeyrac couldn’t help but notice that besides Marius and Grantaire, the rest of the band joined the shifty guys in the corner. He and Combeferre drained their bottles and, grabbing their backpacks, exited into the cool night alone.

“Wanna go to Highland Park? It’s not too far from the bar and I don’t really want to go home yet,” Courfeyrac asked. Ferre nodded and they started walking east, the late spring wind bringing cool mist on their skin. Courfeyrac shivered; he wished he had worn a heavier hoodie but he had been in a hurry that evening. The city lights lit their way to the park.

It looked like it was completely deserted except for the two of them and a couple of hobos. The jogging path was clear, however, so the two friends strolled down it. Courfeyrac thought about his hours of work that was waiting for his the next day; at least he’d get a break from his procrastinated homework during his shift at Macy’s. It was a pleasant night, with the stars as clear as they ever were in the city, the smell of summer starting to fill the air. Mid-path, they were cut off by a figure in a black NYPD uniform. A figure brandishing a handgun. A figure that he had seen many times before at various protests.

“Get on the ground!” Deputy Perkins shouted, causing the two of them to immediately throw their hands up in the air, “Two suspects, black male, early to mid-twenties, armed and dangerous.” The officer switched off his radio; he didn’t have a body cam. Combeferre’s eyes widened, and he dropped his hands as if to turn out his pockets….

“Ferre, no!” Courfeyrac yelled at him. A boom, several booms, like thunder shook his ears as he watched Combeferre’s body jerk eight times back, like he was being hit by lightning.  He grasped his stomach before collapsing, his bullet-riddled light grey hoodie now permeated with a scarlet stain. Courfeyrac dropped to his knees by his friend’s side.

“C-courf-“ Combeferre started, his mouth leaking blood. Courfeyrac gripped his hand, trying to keep pressure all over his torso at the same time. Combeferre looked at his face for a moment or two, then up at the sky as his beautiful dark eyes went glassy and blank, the light faded out of them.

“Ferre? Ferre!” Courfeyrac whispered hysterically as he started to cry. He shook the body, but there was no one inside anymore. Combeferre was gone.

Courfeyrac checked his pocket for his phone, distantly aware that it was now midnight, and prayed that it still had a bit of a charge; he noticed the deputy had turned his back for a moment. He closed Combeferre’s eyes and kissed his hand; like a stealthy ghost, he swallowed his sobs and got to his feet. He about-faced and started sprinting across the park, grateful for his years of track. The deputy fired his weapon, but Courfeyrac was already out of range; Perkins set after him on foot, quick but not as quick as a track star in the middle of a panic attack. Outrun, outlast, just keep going, he chanted in his head, at least until you have somewhere to lie low and call Enjolras.

His heart pounded as, eyes streaming, he finally got out of the park and into an alley, hiding behind a dumpster. Attempting to calm his ragged breathing, he frantically dialed Enjolras’ number.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he muttered, ears still ringing from the gunfire. After five rings, a sleepy voice came out the other end. The wet on the ground was starting to soak through his jeans, to add to the sizeable blood patches. When he looked down at his shaking hand, he only saw gouts of blood still staining it.

“Hello?” Enjolras asked, clearly having just opened up. The police sirens were drawing closer and closer to where he was hiding, and his panic was now in full swing.

“E, no time but I need you to call your dad and have him as my lawyer, shut up, shut up. We were in the park and there was a cop and Ferre got shot and he’s- he’s….” he was sobbing too hard to continue babbling.

“What? Wait, slow down, what?” Enjolras stammered, his voice matching Courfeyrac’s but with a dash of bewilderment.

“He’s dead in Highland and oh god, the blood is all over me and they’re gonna find me and maybe if I don’t resist they won’t kill me too. Don’t tell my mom if they, if they decide I was resisting arrest and shoot me too.” The sirens were now at the mouth of the alley when they stopped suddenly. Courfeyrac ended the call as he heard the cruiser doors open and two people get out. He closed his eyes and leaned against the brick wall, saying an old French prayer that his mom had taught him when he was a little kid in St. Croix.

“Stand with your hands up, kid,” the booming voice said. It wasn’t Perkins, but a giant, burly redhead. Perkins stood on his other side, gun drawn. He stuck his phone in his pocket and rose slowly to his feet, hands fixed behind his head. He stepped toward the deputy, still cautious. It seemed that they were probably going to let him live, then. He was pushed hard against the wall, the brick scraping his face, as they gave him the standard patdown.

“Must’ve tossed the gun somewhere, huh, sir?” Redhead asked as he confiscated Courfeyrac’s phone.

“Sure, Erikson. Sure,” Perkins said. Oh, the bastard _knew_ they had been unarmed! Did Javert finally get tired of dealing with them? Had he ordered this? Courfeyrac was cuffed behind his back, then Perkins slammed his head against the wall so hard that his vision blurred with pain and hot, fresh blood. He stumbled forward as the officers half-dragged, half-shoved him into the back of the cruiser. His tears still hadn’t stopped; in fact, he wept as his heart broke inside his chest.

The jail they took him to wasn’t Javert’s lockup, where he was usually sent for public disturbances, but a decrepit cement block on the outskirts of the city. The din on the inside was no indication of where they ended up taking him.

In a solitary cell, in cell block C, Courfeyrac was uncuffed and strip-searched. They gave him a jumpsuit, locked the door, and threw away the key; they walked away and left him to rot without any idea of what he was even being charged with. He wouldn’t know. Besides his meals and own breathing, the conversation of the officers was the last human sound he would hear for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you got two chapters in one day. Next part in the Shatterbelt arc is told from Enjolras' perspective. Remember to leave a comment; I haven't got any in weeks and it's really disheartening.  
> -The Reclusive Author
> 
> (BTW, St. Croix is in the Virgin Islands in the Caribbean. Courf spent the first five years of his life there.)


	16. Shatterbelt: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having received a terrifying phone call, Enjolras rushes to the scene with Grantaire in tow.

Enjolras dropped the phone as the line went dead, now fully shocked awake from Courfeyrac’s sobbing terror. Combeferre, dead? No, no, Courf must be playing a joke, one that wasn’t nearly as funny as he thought it was. He picked his cell back up, trying to stop his shaking breathing as he dialed Combeferre’s number; he would surely pick up and they could laugh over Courf’s prank together.

Ring.

Ring. 

Ring.

Ring. 

Ring.

_“Hey, this is Anthony Combeferre. I’m either in class or I forgot to charge my phone again. Leave a message or just come find me I guess.”_

Enjolras ended the call. Okay, this really wasn’t funny anymore. Why wasn’t he picking up? He never turned his phone off at night. Unless…. no, Courf had to be kidding, there was no way that Ferre was just _gone_. He tried again.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Hey, whoever this is I got some bad news for you,” a strange voice on the other end said, one of an older man.

“Who are you? Why do you have Combeferre’s phone?” Enjolras asked, panic starting to edge in.

“I pulled it off the body the second time it rang,” the flat voice said, “I’m sorry but he got shot by some cop comin’ here tonight. Eight or nine times before his buddy ran off.” The sound Enjolras made was not so human as something primal, the sound of pure misery. He swallowed his grief for a moment.

“W-where is he? Please, someone needs to get him away from there,” he said. Maybe, he thought, maybe they just needed to get him to a hospital; deep in his heart, however, he knew the unimaginable truth.

“Highland Park, a couple yards up the jog path. I was sleepin’ on the bench when I heard the shouting and the shots.”

“Stay there, I’m on my way,” he said, ending the call. He threw on jeans, a hoodie, and boots. He ran out the door, already hyperventilating. No time to wait for the subway, so he hailed a taxi and threw a wad of cash to the driver. He texted the first number he thought of, his hands trembling almost too hard to type.

**I knorw we havnt talked in months but somenting bad hapned to ferre. I need u, pls meet at Highland Park.**

The text back was less than a minute.

**Okay, be there in 5. –R**

At least he wouldn’t have to do it alone. The taxi stopped at the mouth of the park and he set off at a run, faster than he had ever gone before; the jogging path appeared deserted except for a large lump in the middle. The air was sucked sharply out of Enjolras’ lungs when he stopped in front of the blood-soaked, lifeless body of his best friend. His eyes were closed, his expressive face gone still in death, his skin getting colder by the minute. His glasses had fallen off when he collapsed, cracking one of the treasured lenses. Enjolras wiped the sticky blood off them almost mechanically, then placed them back on the dead man’s face with unutterable tenderness before the shock of what he was looking at started to wear off to be replaced with a suffering too terrible to name. The path surrounding the body was a black puddle in the moonlight, but Enjolras didn’t care as he sunk to the ground next to what used to be Combeferre. He could barely breathe through his heaving sobs, so heavy that soon he was making no sound at all. He felt a hand on his back, tracing small circles, as Grantaire knelt next to him.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice barely cracking out of his throat. Enjolras tried to speak, but it took him another minute or two to be able to get anything out.

“Courf called me and said he got shot, I called Ferre and some homeless guy answered, so I came here and he was dead,” Enjolras said. He hugged his arms close to his stomach, an old method of self-comfort he had learned when he had been left alone as a child.

“Oh,” Grantaire replied, seemingly at loss for words. What words could there be, when someone who had been so full of life and love had it all snatched away in a freak encounter late at night in a random park?

“And now I don’t know what happened to Courf ‘cuz I tried calling him but he doesn’t answer and I think they got him too,” Enjolras said, his sobbing giving way to numbness.

“Who is ‘they’?” Grantaire asked, “Did he say if it was a gang or a mugger or-“

“A cop. A fucking cop!” Enjolras yelled, his voice breaking on the last syllable. The cops had never treated them particularly well, but this cruelty was too much for him to take. He finally looked at Grantaire, who had bowed his head and was now shaking. Not weeping, exactly, but trembling like a leaf.

“One of that fucker’s that picked us up at that protest?” Grantaire asked, the anger barely being held back. Javert’s force had never done something like that before that Enjolras knew of, but probably.

“I don’t know and I guess we’ll never know because Courf’s missing. There’ll be something on the news if another body…” he couldn’t finish the horrible thought. He couldn’t, he absolutely _could not_ , lose both of them forever in one night.

“The pigs do this all the fucking time and they _always_ get away with it! Not this fucking time, not again,” Grantaire cried, his voice thick with suppressed tears and boiling rage. Again? He could be talking about the other murders by police but it sounded like he was talking about something else entirely.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras asked gently, “did this happen to you?” Grantaire sat back on his heels and stared at the body beneath him as he began his tale, taking a deep and shuddering breath beforehand. It was a tale that began when he was so young, so vulnerable, and ended seventy-two hours later with a husk of a person all alone in the world. A tale of a man who lost everything, a tale of police bigotry, a tale of complete and utter despair. It was worse than Enjolras had ever imagined when he wondered what had happened to him, enough to turn even the most hopeful young man old and bitter before he was thirty. He reached his blood-encrusted hand out and took the storyteller’s; they stayed on the ground, hands intertwined, until almost two in the morning when it was finally time to face what to do next.

They stood together above the body and Grantaire called 911, for Enjolras was too overwhelmed in that moment to do it himself. He explained what had happened and where they were, leaving nothing out, adding in Courfeyrac’s last phone call after midnight and the old homeless guy who had apparently picked up the phone. Evidently, a squad car wasn’t that far away from the park as it pulled up within five minutes. To his surprise, it was Chief Javert, his deputy nowhere to be seen; a kid cop probably younger than Enjolras hung back behind him.

“Tell me quickly, what’s the story? Don’t worry about giving your names, I already know them,” Javert asked in a razor-sharp tone when he saw the body. The kid got out a notepad to start writing as the impromptu interview began.

“My phone went off right after midnight and it’s my friend Marcus Courfeyrac all panicked about how the two of them were walking in the park when an officer shot Anthony Combeferre,” Enjolras said, gesturing to the corpse,“ then Courfeyrac ran off and I don’t know what happened to him. I think it’s a joke, so I call Combeferre and some homeless guy answers and says he’s dead by a cop. I take a cab here and there’s nothing but the body.” The young officer furiously scribbled all the particulars before Javert turned to Grantaire.

“What about you? Why are you here?” he asked.

“Enjolras texted me that something bad happened and he wanted someone there with him. I’m the one who called 911,” Grantaire said evenly. Javert nodded and the baby cop made a note of it. The scribe took a lot of photos of the scene and the body, as he was instructed to, then awaited further orders from his boss.

“Barauskas, put in a call for an ambulance to come around and get the body, then a call to the station for a ten-block perimeter to search for Mr. Courfeyrac. Savvy?” Javert commanded. The young officer immediately went back to the squad car and started radioing out. Javert turned back to the pair in front of him.

“Your friend was wrong about it being one of my officers. They would never betray me and more importantly, the Law, in this manner,” Javert said with confidence, ” It was dark, he was confused, it’s as simple as that. I’m very sorry for your loss, but we will work tirelessly to find whoever did this and bring them to justice.” No, they wouldn’t. Enjolras’ many, many times in the backseat of a police car had taught him two things: one, that squad cars kept track of everywhere they were taken and records were easily accessed by the department, and two, officers always had their radios on which could also incite them if they were found in a location where a shooting had occurred. Things would go as they always did when a young black guy was gunned down by a cop. The department would find out who was that fired the shots, bury evidence, make up media-sponsored lies, and say the officer did it in self-defense or the victim was armed. The only other witness besides a vanished homeless guy was now MIA, unconfirmed to be alive and locked away, unconfirmed to be dead.

“An ambulance is on its way, Chief, and ten-blocks are being searched by whoever’s in the area,” Officer Barauskas reported, “Um, Perkins, Macdonald, Valdez, Thorpe, Starling, Reid, Diggs, and Hart. I think that’s everyone?” Speaking of which, why hadn’t the asshole deputy been with Javert that night? There was never a time Enjolras had been picked up that the two of them hadn’t been together. Perhaps Javert was personally training a new officer, but Enjolras was beginning to think that there was a far more sinister explanation for Perkins’ absence.

“And the two of us, Barauskas. Boys,” Javert said, addressing Grantaire and Enjolras, “I suggest you wait here for the ambulance, then go home and get some sleep. We’ll be at Mr. Enjolras’ residence tomorrow morning to get an official statement. I assume neither of you have moved since you last were arrested?” They nodded. Javert packed up his young officer, his squad car, and his pride and drove away to help keep order in patrolling the area. The ambulance came, took a few photos, and took away the body; Enjolras had never felt so helpless and lost in his entire life.

“What do we do now?” he asked. For once, he didn’t have a solution or even any ideas.

“Gather your friends and call his family, I guess. Courfeyrac’s too,” Grantaire suggested. Oh yeah, Courfeyrac had wanted Enjolras to ask his dad to represent him in court. That gave him new hope that he was alive somewhere, though the likelihood of getting a trial seemed to be diminishing by the minute. Just because it was in the Bill of Rights didn’t mean it necessarily happened all the time or very fairly at all.

They went back to Enjolras’ dorm room, and instead of sleeping, Enjolras contemplated how he was going to tell a woman that her beloved, pride-and-joy, accomplished son was laying on a table in a morgue somewhere, never to embrace her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Up next is the thrilling conclusion to the Shatterbelt arc, told entirely through a present-tense flashback to The Incident roughly seven years in Grantaire's past. After that, we have another Enjolras chapter before resuming the normal narrative structure. 
> 
> I am also pleased to announce a spin-off series, tentatively titled 'She Keeps Me Warm', that takes place in the same universe but will follow two different characters through the ups and downs of being in love. It will be dropping around January, or whenever 'Hate Me' wraps since it takes place in the future.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	17. Shatterbelt: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Grantaire told Enjolras (an expanded upon version, of course).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE. TORTURE, HEARD BUT NOT SEEN RAPE, AND VARIOUS OTHER ABUSES COMMITTED. ALSO, SUICIDE MENTION TOWARDS THE END. 
> 
> This chapter is written in present tense and is in a more omniscient voice than the usual chapters (If I messed up and wrote something in past tense, please tell me). Also, while I did look up the Muslim holiday and celebration dates for 2008 as well as everyday Muslim customs, I was not raised in the religion and may have erred somewhere; if so, I want to know so I can fix it.

It is December 20, 2008, in a little town outside of Austin, Texas, and a young man is coming home from college to see his parents. He is twenty years old, an aspiring graphic artist at the top of his class, with sparkling dark eyes and a halo of thick raven curls. He is attempting to grow a beard, despite his girlfriend’s protests that it looks like a patchy nightmare and he should really wait a few years until he could grow it properly.  It’s too bad, he thinks to himself, that Floreal got roped into a family vacation to Mexico and so can’t join him. They had been planning on telling his parents and sister about the engagement during Winter Break, a period out of classes despite the fact that neither of them celebrate Christmas. It looks like it will have to wait until Spring Break instead.

The two of them had, however, celebrated the sacred holiday of Eid-Ul-Adha together several days previously. It had been lonely, as there was no mosque or even a decent-sized Muslim population in the area. Grantaire reflects, as he walks across the farm yard and up to his parents’ door, that had he not had exams, he would have joined his family a week early and celebrated with them. As it is, he only gets to spend Al-Hijirah on the 29th and the regular New Year with them, but he doesn’t mind. He is glad to be home at last.

“Hamza, it’s so good to see you!” his mother exclaims, embracing him. He hugs her tightly, as it had been many months since he had last seen her and he has missed her desperately.  The house is the way it always is, cozy and smelling like spices and vanilla. His mother appears to have redecorated, as the walls are now a nice lemon yellow with indigo accents. He likes the change and is distracted by a thirteen-year-old girl slamming him into a bear hug. Grantaire swings Layali around as he’s been doing since she was small.

 “Well, it’s around six,” his father says after he too has embraced his son, “Are you hungry?” After his 12 hour long bus ride, he can fee; his stomach rumbling. He nods and the four of them go to the dining room where there is already a pot of hearty lamb soup waiting on the table. After they have prayed and everyone has been served, The Third Degree comes flying at Grantaire’s head. He’s pretty much used to it by now.

“Have you been keeping up in your classes?” his mother asks, “What about boxing, are you still set on that?” Boxing, they understood since he had always been tall and muscular, even earning comparisons to tanks and Superman. However, his parents haven’t been the most supportive of his choice to become a graphic designer, preferring him to go into a more stable career, but they seem to have come around a bit since he last saw them. His extracurricular activities also draw attention to his seeming inability to focus on anything in particular, though at least his father approves of the sport enough to avoid much criticism.

“Top of my class,” Grantaire replies, “and you know, being really good as a junior means I can pretty much walk into a job after I’m out.” This, of course, is complete and utter horse shit. Grantaire knows how much the job market sucks for artists if they’re freelance and just out of school, but his parents don’t and he really does not want to wade through their “gentle suggestions” that he change his major. The last break together, he had threatened to change to a Classical Mythology major, a field in which there were literally no career opportunities, and his parents had gotten off his back for a while.

“That’s great, Hamza,” his father says, “And what about the boxing?”

“Idris,” his mother chastises, “Let him eat.” This irony is not lost on Grantaire, but he continues to eat anyway. He loves his parents dearly, but sometimes they can be a little overbearing. Layali talks about her new pet, a cat named Jade, who likes to sleep on her face and wakes her up at night. Grantiare tells her to put catnip somewhere in her room to get it to go away, and she replies that she’s already tried that, Hamza, she’s not an idiot. Apparently his father’s honorable discharge from the Air Force ceremony is next month; Grantaire says he’ll try to make it. After nearly thirty years of service, both in action and on reserve, his father finally gets to find his own place to call home regardless of where the government wants him. His parents are planning on selling the farm and leaving Texas for a more hospitable place, Michigan perhaps. Layali will even be able to go to a regular school that wasn’t a home school (their mother had been concerned about the anti-Muslim sentiment that permeats their small town, it also being the meaning they live on a farm miles outside of town and keep to themselves mostly) and hopefully will make friends other than animals. Grantaire will miss them, but he can’t blame them for going literally anywhere else; he and Floreal are planning on leaving too as soon as they graduate.

After dinner has been cleared away, the family sits by their fireplace to talk even more. Grantaire relates the tale of missing a step in his dance course and falling completely over himself, knocking down a line of other dancers. It hadn’t been funny at the time, but looking back on it now, the domino collapse of half of a class was a hilarious mental image.

“How’s Floreal doing? Still in the same classes?” his mother asks. Out of all the girlfriends and boyfriends Grantaire has had, Floreal has been the longest and the one his mom likes the best. When he came out as bi when he was fourteen, his parents had been surprisingly cool with it; he’d expected a backlash of some sort, but all they ever said about it was that they wanted him to be safe and happy. He and Floreal have been dating for two years now, and it’s about the point where people either break up or get engaged. Grantaire has opted for the latter and decides that he can’t he keep it in any longer, mentally apologizing to Floreal as he speaks.

“Don’t tell her I told you, but I asked her to marry me,” Grantaire says. His mom gasps and his dad leans forward.

“And?” Layali prompts, wide eyed.

“She said yes!” he says in triumph. Suddenly he is being hugged and congratulated by everyone at once. Of course, his mother says, they must get married in the summer when the world is so pretty and warm. He’s inclined to agree, since the winter is sucky in Texas, let alone the freezing snow pile that is Michigan. The cold never agrees with him, and Floreal teases him about being a burrito of blankets and coats as soon as the temperature drops below eighty degrees. His roommate, Christian, complains a lot about how hot their room is all the time and Grantaire ignores him. A summer wedding will be the best for him, though he can tell right now that there is no way his mom is keeping this quiet. A really big apology and a bouquet of wildflowers will probably be necessary.

The family enjoys their time together until ten p.m., when he starts yawning and his father agrees that maybe everyone should get some sleep. They could talk more tomorrow, so after the night family prayer, they all go to bed.

At one in the morning, according to the clock that flashes by Grantaire’s face, he is jerked out of his bed and dragged by two men into the living room, where the fireplace is cold and his mother, father, and Layali are tied to kitchen chairs and gagged; to his horror, the women are gagged with their own hijabs. The clearest image he will have burned into his mind is his little sister’s terrified face begging him to help her. This picture will haunt Grantaire’s dreams for years to come, but he doesn’t know that as he too is forced into a chair. It takes all six of the invaders to restrain the fighter, and they eventually have him tied up to, having by this point punched him in the face enough times to make him lose consciousness.

When he comes to, the clock on the mantle shows that it is now four o’clock in the morning. Peering out of swollen eyes, he sees his father’s chest being carved up with a kitchen knife, the blood spurting and dribbling out of his heaving chest. Grantaire strains at his bonds with all of his strength, but there are both ropes and handcuffs keeping him to the chair. He is dimly aware that three of the invaders are town cops, one being the sheriff, and the other three looking like their sons. The biggest son notices he is awake and whacks him on the back of the head to knock him out again, his father’s muffled sobs in his ears.

It is noon when he wakes up again and he is the only person in the room. His father’s intestines are on the floor and if not for the gag, Grantaire would’ve thrown up. The word TERRORIST is carved in block letters across the dead man’s forehead. The man who had dedicated his life to the United States was gone, the vicious accusation marking his flesh forever. His mother and sister have been taken away, and by the grunting, laughing, and screams, he can tell what’s taking place in the next room. Oh Allah, what had they done to deserve this?

The invaders do not return for nearly four hours, leaving Grantaire to watch the clock and try to look anywhere but the corpse in the room with him. His chest hurts like someone has thrust a red-hot poker into it. He still tries to get out but it is futile: they are going to torture him and they are going to murder him.

“Fuck, man, why didn’t you tell us the son was coming home?” the sheriff asks one of the other cops. The other cop shrugs as he ties the thirteen-year-old back into her chair, gagging her with the hijab again.

“Didn’t know. What are we going to do? We only have room for the three of _them_ ,” he says, gesturing to Grantaire’s family.  Grantaire’s shouts to take him instead are met with indifference by both Allah and the murderers.  

“Let him go, who the fuck is gonna believe him anyway? Family goes missing, son is alive, it writes itself,” the third cop says. The sheriff nods and gives them a thumbs-up to continue. Grantaire’s muffled yelling grows louder. His heart is racing so fast that it feels like it has stopped, his breathing ragged and rapid. The sons surround him on all sides, each with a sharp butcher knife in his hand; Grantaire’s eyes go wild and wide as they start slicing all over his face, the pain and blood so intense that nothing outside of it even breaks through the glaring red haze. It goes on for hours, slow and harsh and deep.

It is one in the morning again and Grantaire’s prayers for it all to be over are again met with silence. The invaders are eating and loudly debating who is going to be next, the woman or the little girl. A coin is flipped and it lands face up, Grantaire’s mother’s side. They have left Grantaire’s eyes untouched, and one of the cops holds his head focused on the woman who had given him life as the other’s take turns cutting all over her body and her once-beautiful face before the sheriff slits her throat. A river of scarlet pours down her body and Grantaire sobs and strains at the bonds. Grantaire jerks his head toward Layali, who is staring, transfixed, at the bodies, a blank expression on her face. She is clearly still alive, but Grantaire can tell she is completely gone inside her own mind, completely broken. It is a wonder that he still holds on.

The invaders untie the girl and throw her to the floor, where they start stripping her clothes off. Grantaire shuts his eyes tight, but the sounds are piercing his ears with every moment. He has been abandoned by Allah, his terrified little sister has been abandoned by Allah. Eventually the men have all had their chance and Layali is evidently tied up again. Grantaire’s eyes are forced open and the pool of blood on the floor where they had so cruelly abused her drew his horrified gaze.

“Shit, the girl’s gonna die early,” one of the sons says. The cops have a quiet discussion and decide to end things with her before she could bleed out. All six knives go into her thin, underdeveloped chest and she is dead within minutes. Grantaire is alive, but they are not done with him yet.

The first of the tortures is beating him. They actually untie him, but he is so weak from blood loss and hunger that he falls to the ground. They kick him hardest in the ribs and face, and every inch of his body is blooming with bruises by the time he passes out below the attackers.

He is again strapped to the chair when he wakes up, a lighter a centimeter from his face. This torture is slow, very slow, as they burn all over his neck, torso, and limbs. This was worse than the knives, worse than the beating, but not as bad as seeing the torture and death of his family. He again passes out from the pain, for a long time.

It is one in the morning again, forty-two hours since he was pulled out of bed. The silence in the house is deafening and he is alone, the attackers evidently resting between attacks. He doesn’t get a long respite before they are there again, this time with concentrated acid. They drop the burning chemical in different places on his face, thankfully avoiding his eyes. Then they knock him out again.

Six hours later, he wakes up, untied, in the living room alone. The bodies are gone, the attackers are gone, and the scrawled red message on the wall reads **DON’T TELL ANYONE**. He gets up, and instantly collapses from the pain.  He drags himself to the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He stands long enough to grab the phone, then is back on the ground. He dials 911.

"What’s your emergency?” the chipper operator asks. Grantaire swallows a mouthful of blood and speaks in a cracked voice.

“Please help me, they- they broke into my house and my family,” he chokes back a sob, “they killed them and took them away.”

“Sir, where are you?” the operator asks, still calm.

“129 Maple Drive, the farm outside town. Please help me,” he says again. Then he drops the phone, the operator’s questions still pounding out of the receiver. He pulls his knees to his chest, never mind his ribs, and grabs fistfuls of his hair as he screams and screams and sobs.

Later, he is vaguely aware that they take him away, into a big white building, and put him in a room where he is hooked up to fluids and bandaged up. When he wakes, the clock on the hospital room wall says that it is one in the morning and the smell of blood and cleaning fluid is overpowering. He starts screaming again and a squad of nurses rushes in to sedate him.

A week later, when he has regained control of his mind, police officers visit to question him, some including the torturers. They practical accuse him of murdering his family and the guilt taking over driving him mad; they refuse to listen to his witness account of the cops torturing his family, saying he must have imagined things wrong. The evidence is undeniable, but he finally convinces them that it wasn’t him. They say they’ll open an investigation for the capture of six murders dressed as police officers, but Grantaire knows nothing will come of it. He is released from the hospital to deal with his trauma alone.

In another week, the bodies are discovered in a river nearby, rotted so badly that they are almost unrecognizable, save for the TERRORIST carving on the man’s forehead. Officials thankfully don’t make Grantaire look at them to identify them, and he claims them. His estranged uncle, his father’s brother, arranges and pays for the funeral. They are buried in a single tomb in Reed’s Cemetery, where Grantaire wishes he could join them. His uncle hands him an envelope containing five thousand dollars, then says never to contact him again. Grantaire sits alone at the gravesite long after everyone else has left.

Six months later he is found hanging himself in their dorm bathroom by Floreal. He is cut down and saved, but what for? He drinks his first bottle of whiskey that week.

Wedding plans are stalled for what seems like forever before Grantaire finally breaks it off with Floreal, telling her that he doesn’t love her anymore. He is lying, of course, but he doesn’t want her close to him. They will not repair things between them for three years.

He packs a suitcase, takes his money from the sale of the farm and the five thousand, and leaves Texas forever. He is running, desperate to escape the Incident; he swears a vow to never let anyone near him again.

Almost seven years and four  suicide attempts after that terrible seventy-two hours, a skinny, functional alcoholic drifter with long hair, a wild black beard that grows between scar tissue, and empty dark eyes steps off a Greyhound bus in New York City, still running from the past that keeps nipping at his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras chapter next, putting them back in the present day. Thanks for reading :)
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	18. The Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get insane at a rally for justice for the dead man.

Enjolras leaned over to light Grantaire’s candle off his own, joining the thousands of others outside Chief Javert’s station before he went in front of the crowd to speak. The police station finally admitted it had been a pair of their officers, but they refused to name names and claimed it was self-defense. The story had gone viral online overnight after Bahorel had suggested that they all tweet what happened; it would make the story impossible to push under the rug if millions of people knew and were talking about it. Two days after Enjolras’ best friends were ripped away from him, the crowd held various painted signs along with their candles, bearing messages like **#BLACKLIVESMATTER** , **#FREEMARCUSCOURFEYRAC** , and **#JUSTICEFORANTHONYCOMBEFERRE**. Enjolras had marched for other people ruthlessly murdered by racist cops before, but marching for a stranger is nothing like marching for someone after you had spent almost a decade by their side. It took him a moment to swallow the lump in his throat and find his voice, but when he looked to the front where his friends were and saw two old men, Valjean and Tom, supporting each other and a huge sign that said **END POLICE BRUTALITY NOW** , he remembered that he had to be the Fearless Leader in that moment regardless of how much grief he had and was able to continue.

“Two days ago,” he said quietly into the megaphone, than got louder, “Anthony Combeferre and Marcus Courfeyrac went for a walk, where a cop _in this department_ unlawfully shot one and unlawfully arrested the other! You knew Courfeyrac, you saw him emcee at protests, you were probably his friend, and now he’s being held without charges, without trial, and we don’t even know where he is! Is this what we call justice?”

“No!” came the roar of the crowd. Black, white, brown, and every color of person in between had finally had enough of the cops, at least in that sector. The cops specifically targeted the black residents of the area, but they had a history of cruelty to the poor in general and even those not in danger because of race were in danger because of economics. Who listens to the poor man? Who cares whether he lives or dies, in the long run? Enjolras cared, even though he himself was moderately wealthy. Combeferre, however, had not been targeted because he was poor, but because he was black. Had he been poor and not had a pretty rich family to economically press the issue of his death, it would have been a different story for him in the end.

“You didn’t know Combeferre,” Enjolras shouted, “because he never took credit for taking care of everyone else. He was backstage at every protest, making sure everyone happy and comfortable. Now, they say he had a gun, but Combeferre hated all violence, anyone could tell you that! They killed an innocent man on a trumped-up charge because he was the wrong color in the wrong place at the wrong time. Will we stand for this?”

“No!” the roar grew louder. Combeferre had been extraordinarily shy and quiet, but everyone could recognize him even if they had never tried to start a conversation. If they had, they knew him to be thoughtful and funny; the accusation that he was a violent man would have been hilarious had it not had such a terrible consequence. Combeferre’s five older sisters and his parents had been the first on the front lines after Enjolras had made the heartbreaking phone call (he didn’t know where exactly they lived nowadays or he would have done it in person). They now stood in a huddle with their protest signs and their anger, surrounded by Combeferre’s friends illuminated in candle light. The sight of them bolstered Enjolras’ courage to continue.

“They were my brothers!” he shouted, this time directing his remarks at the station itself, “And you won’t even punish those who murdered them without cause! Is this the Law that you love, Javert? _Is this the Law of this city and nation_?” If there was one thing that might change the Chief’s heart, it was the reminder that illegal activity had taken place by his own officers. Indeed, it had apparently affected him in such a way that he came outside with a pair of officers flanking him, the ratty Sergeant and a burly redhead.

“I order you to cease and desist,” Javert said, taking the megaphone,“You are in violation of the city’s Law and are obstructing traffic and disturbing the peace.” Enjolras had stopped giving a damn about the socially acceptable protest rules and now it was the time to stand without fear. He would, however, keep the rally nonviolent if possible out of respect for life and the man they now mourned. If the cops started viciously assaulting the gathered citizens without due cause, however, Enjolras was prepared to give the okay to fight back no matter the cost. He would be civilized until he was forced not to be.

“I order _you_ , Javert, to turn over the officers that murdered my friends,” Enjolras said, taking back the megaphone, “You know for a fact that what they did was illegal use of excessive and deadly force without proper cause. After all this time, I can’t believe how hypocritical you are.” The crowd started murmuring and a ‘Damn right!’ came from near where Valjean was standing. Enjolras had wondered forever what Valjean’s relationship to Javert exactly was, but now it seemed clear that Valjean had served time in the past. The chief took back the megaphone.

“Apprehending a criminal is not illegal, Mr. Enjolras. Now tell your little schoolboy friends to clear out before you all are charged with obstructing justice.” He sounded a bit shaken, Enjolras thought. Was he having a moral dilemma for the first time in his life or something? He _knew_ from the three or four times Combeferre had been picked up at protests that he was levelheaded, cooperative, and, most importantly, completely abhorred violence. Enjolras would apologize for things getting out of hand as that was his job as Leader, but Combeferre would make lengthy apologies denouncing even the punches to the nose that occasionally occurred at rallies. Javert had to remember, he had to!

“He wasn’t a criminal, Javert. And we’re not either,” Enjolras said, not into the megaphone but almost privately.

“Your and his arrest record would say otherwise. The department will put the officers responsible on probation if you disperse right now. It’s the best offer I can give you at the present time,” Javert said. Probation? For killing a man who’d done no harm?

“Two weeks of paid leave isn’t going to make up for the fact that they killed someone, _sir_. I thought you respected the Law that says murderers go to prison,” Enjolras shot back. Javert’s stone façade slipped for a moment, leaving a human face that looked almost indecisive, but then solidified again into the expressionless mask.

“It’s not illegal for an officer to stop a potential criminal out of self-defense. I say with absolute confidence that Pe- my officer wouldn’t have fired his weapon if he didn’t fear for his life.” Javert’s problem was that he solidly believed that all of his officers cared and were as unbiased about the Law as he was. In a perfect world, all cops would be like that, but Javert refused to admit that they lived in an imperfect world and some of his officers were extremely 1950s-level bigoted.

“So you’re saying that they’re guilty until proven innocent?” Enjolras said, talking into the megaphone once more, “Isn’t that backwards from the Bill of Rights?” The shouting from the crowd grew louder and more frenzied. If things got past the level that conference could attempt to work out, Enjolras had a crazy, dangerous, but hopefully effective plan to force Javert’s hand.

“My officer said he knew they were guilty just by looking at them. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Mr. Enjolras.” This remark was the tipping point, the crowd screaming for justice while cops in full riot gear poured out of the station. Admitting the attack was racist, even offhandedly, was enough to convince the few hesitant protestors that the justice system in the area was broken and something had to change.

The fight broke out between the officers and the crowd almost immediately, rubber and wooden bullets hitting the protestors and fists and rocks hitting the cops. The first tear gas grenade came shortly after, blinding Enjolras and filling the air with poison. The sound of screams permeated the air, the grenade going off less than a yard away from Enjolras and putting completely out of action on the ground in agony. Somebody poured something in his eyes, he didn’t see who or know what it was, and he was able to wrench them open to the chaos unfolding around him; nothing was going to divert its course except for one, completely batshit insane plan that Enjolras had not wanted to resort to. Some of the crowd fled in terror and pain, but when Enjolras was able to open his eyes to fight, most had stayed for the fight. Old Tom was being carried away by the surprisingly limber Valjean, who shouted to Enjolras that he’d be back as soon as Tom was safely out of the fray. Enjolras jumped in and pulled Joly, who was smacking the officers as hard in the head as he could with his cane, away from the crowd.

“Get out of here, you’re sick!” Enjolras shouted. Joly gave an indignant snort.

“They were my friends too, Enjolras! I’ll be damned if I’m going to hide now!” he shouted back. There was no time to argue, not when Enjolras watched as a rubber bullet hit an older lady in the head, dropping her like a fly. He and Joly ran over and, grabbing her under the arms, dragged her out of the mob.

“Fall back!” Enjolras shouted into the full-volume megaphone, “Fall back to the barricade!” And the crowd parted like the Red Sea, taking off as quickly as possible in five different strategic directions. Enjolras and his chief lieutenants sprinted along with a hundred others to the location of the biggest and most difficult to defend barricade, just a half mile north, to attempt to block a major eight-way intersection. The befuddled police gave them a couple of minutes leeway as they took a moment to register what was happening; this breath of air was over as the cops got into the squad cars and started driving. When he had been briefing the protestors on the emergency plan, Bahorel had told them to stick to back alleys and side streets, where the police could only follow on foot if at all. At least Enjolras’ section had obeyed, even if no one else had, as they scattered and went in twos and threes away from the main road, still heading to the barricade.

Enjolras had a bittersweet memory of Combeferre encouraging him to run faster, push himself harder, win the race. His gentle and positive voice was a constant companion in Enjolras’ mind as he ran at full-tilt to where he would make his last stand to defend his friend if necessary.

Finally, he arrived at the intersection in record time, where cars were already piling up and obstructing traffic. His hundred had made it, the slower ones arriving a few minutes later than the others, and they were hastily building a monument of sofas, tables, food stands, and millions upon millions of pieces of concrete, rebar, brick, and wood. Grantaire and Enjolras, without a word to each other, flung a worn-out loveseat onto the barricade, now thirty feet high and spanning the entire intersection. As per Feuilly’s superior engineering instructions, a divot 100 yards circumference was left in the middle, ten feet deep and reinforced with slabs of sidewalk that Bahorel and a couple of others had pulled up; there was a tunnel-style exit designed by the Civil Engineer that led into one of the surrounding safe buildings, owned by Bahorel, for food, water, and a bathroom. It would be a fairly close fit, but the hundred could sit inside and wait it out. Three days was the maximum amount that they could stay without issue, then Enjolras would be forced to send all of the old, the very young, and the sick home for their own safety. Hopefully the police would be willing to negotiate before then, for every hour lost the city thousands of dollars and drew attention to the cold-blooded murder the cops had committed.

After everyone else was inside the center, Enjolras climbed the barricade, made of New York itself, and sat in the divot. A hand, Grantaire’s, grabbed his as they listened to the muffled sirens and gunfire outside of their demonstration that demanded justice for the death of an innocent man and the unlawful arrest of another. Enjolras did not sleep, but he rested against the cement walls, waiting for the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU PROBABLY THOUGHT FEUILLY'S ENGINEERING DEGREE WAS JUST A CUTE FACT I THREW IN FOR SHITS AND GIGGLES BUT YOU WERE WRONG! Sorry for yelling but I got excited about being able to utilize him in this chapter. He designed every one of the five barricades and his master plans were given to fellow civil engineering and architecture students, his friends, that hopefully put them up to his specifications. Also, look, BARRICADE! :)
> 
> The next chapter will, if I can finish it around the holiday chaos, be up next week and will be the first true Grantaire chapter in a while. Thank you, as always, for continuing to read this little tale!
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	19. Fajr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night and morning passes over the highly tense rebels at the barricade in the wake of Combeferre's murder.

Grantaire barely drew breath as the night cloaked the rebels in its shadowy embrace. The action in the streets was over, at least for the moment, and all they had left to do was wait. Wait to live, wait to die, wait for a sign that things could be resolved in peace. He doubted that that sign would ever come, despite all of Enjolras’ hopes that a negotiation could be worked out. Call him a cynic, but things rarely worked out the way they ought to.

Jehan was falling asleep on his right shoulder, while he still clutched a massive piece of rebar in his other hand. Enjolras had specifically insisted that they be unarmed, but most people inside the barricade held some type of improvised weapon made of construction material. The Frenchman may have been young, soft-spoken, and dreamy, but when all was said and all was done, Jehan Prouvaire was one hard motherfucker when he needed to be. He fought like a man three times his size, with the ferocity of a regular street fighter and the skill of a trained boxer; the police that set on him were out cold pretty quickly as he slipped away to fight elsewhere. Grantaire wondered what would happen to him if the barricade fell and they all got arrested. Would he be deported back to France? Banned from entering the country ever again? Jehan had probably violated some kind of regulation on his visa by breaking the law, especially with the added multiple charges of assault on a police officer. Once the three days were up, Grantaire decided, he would get Jehan out of there if he had to drag him home himself.

Several feet past Jehan, Bossuet and Musichetta sat on either side of Joly, all of them alert and on guard. Getting Joly ready that morning had been an interesting experience. While his partners had been busy down at the Musain, preparing for the main event, Joly had asked for Grantaire’s help in getting down the streets. Once he had arrived at Joly’s apartment, however, he had been a little taken aback at the cartel’s worth of drugs Joly had laid out on his kitchen table. He had known Joly took a lot of medicine to cope with his conditions, but _goddamn_ , that tableful was likely worth several thousand dollars. Together, the two of them had devised a most elegant solution to make sure Joly would have all of the supply he needed for at least two weeks (because there was no way in hell Joly was leaving early, his illness be damned): three fanny packs, each with a different medicine, strapped tightly across his torso with additional straps, as if he was wearing a vest. Once another t-shirt and a hoodie were put over it, he looked a little bulky but otherwise unremarkable.  Unless he was shot or something, which he wouldn’t be if Grantaire had anything to say about it, the literal life-vest wouldn’t be going anywhere out of Joly’s reach. Grantaire had also additionally asked Enjolras not to mention Joly leaving the barricade and to let him make that call for himself if something went haywire in his system; Joly was extremely sensitive about his disability and never took kindly to people treating him like an incapable child because of it.

Enjolras’ death grip on his hand tightened.

“Hey, you okay?” Grantaire asked. Oh, man, talk about a stupid question. Grantaire really needed to get used to being around people that weren’t his two friends, drug dealers, and random barflies again. What words can be given to someone who lost their favorite person less than three days beforehand? Grantaire knew from personal experience that there were none, that there would be no comfort.

“Peachy,” Enjolras said, his voice distinctly high and strained. The stakes were so high that Grantaire would have been more wary if Enjolras had sounded calm, or accepting. That would mean that Enjolras had resigned himself to losing the fight and nobody, especially not Grantaire, would be able to keep up the fire once the spark had died.  He made small circles on the back of Enjolras’ tense hand, working the knotty muscles until he felt him relax a little.

“They’ll probably be willing to negotiate by morning, you’ll see,” Grantaire told him, “You know how those sons of bitches love their money and we’re stopping them from getting at it.” He, of course, didn’t believe a single damn word that was coming out of his mouth. The funny thing was, if they were so insistent on solving the problem as quickly and cheaply as possible, they would send in the National Guard the next morning and shoot all of the protestors dead, then plant a bomb or something on the barricade to give them a reasonable excuse for the slaughter. Grantaire didn’t need to say this out loud to Enjolras, who had clearly been turning the issue over and over in his brilliant mind, so they both took a small amount of comfort in his blatant lie. Besides, the thought of immediate impending death might make some of the hundred lose their morale.

“At first light, I want you, Valjean, and Bahorel to head into the building and get food for everyone,” Enjolras said, “But for now, rest. We need to be prepared to fight tomorrow if things get ugly with the cops.” Grantaire intended to do no such thing. If and when the cops stormed the barricade, no amount of rest could possibly prepare them for a fight against people trained and in possession of actual weapons. They’d be lucky if there were no fatalities. So Grantaire would stay awake and alert, ignoring the cold itching under his skin from complete sobriety from both booze and his new demon-slayer, the one he kept even quieter than the other, smack. Nobody knew about his little secret except for himself and Montparnasse, and he figured he had the strength to keep himself in check about it. He only used about once or twice a week at most; nobody needed to know about how he made himself feel good nowadays. He was the one in control of his miniature escape route and it wasn’t like it was costing him anything except an hour or two a night standing behind Montparnasse and looking intimidating. When all was said and all was done, it was a very sweet deal and relatively harmless.

He felt the light, warm pressure of Enjolras’ head on his shoulder as the leader took a much-needed accidental siesta against him. He wrapped his arm around Enjolras and drew him in a bit closer. Not enough to cause a stir, mind you, just enough to make him more comfortable. How long had it been since they had last held each other in this way? Too long, far too long. It was nice to feel the weight of another human body snuggled up next to his again. It was nice to feel anything truly good again.

The first light of a new day began to paint the sky pink.

“Bi hawl lil lahi wa quwat ti hi aqoomo wa aq’ud,” Grantaire muttered to himself, almost automatically. Enjolras sat up.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asked. Grantaire shrugged.

“Oh, just a part of the dawn prayer I remember, my favorite part, actually. It means ‘Due to the Vigour given by Allah, and because of the vitality from Him I rise and stand’. I don’t know why I said it just now. I haven’t spoken a word of Arabic since…” he trailed off. Enjolras seemed to get the picture.

“Well, I guess we could all use a little vigor today. I’ll make sure everyone is up and get the news of what’s going on outside, you take a couple of people and go get breakfast from the building,” Enjolras instructed, Leader Mode intact, and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead. The two of them rose to their feet, joints cracking and stretched out. Valjean, across the circle near Cosette, Eponine, and Marius, was already awake and crossing to the tunnel entrance Grantaire made a beeline over to where Bahorel and Feuilly were asleep, and tapped Bahorel firmly on the top of his head.

“Cinco más minutos, mamá,” he muttered, then started lightly snoring again. Grantaire tapped him harder on the head.

“Come on, man, we gotta go get food. You can call me daddy if that’ll make you _get your ass up_ ,” he said. Bahorel started, looking around wildly as he remembered where he was. Feuilly burst out laughing at his antics.

Bahorel yawned and joined Grantaire standing. After getting a few older ladies to move, the three men ducked into the tunnel. It was cramped, hardly high enough for them to walk doubled over, and about ten feet or so long. Grantaire was almost blinded by a stray chair leg as they walked and had to stop to shift it back to its proper position. Luckily, the entire tunnel didn’t cave in with this motion.

The building at least had a high enough ceiling to stand up in. It looked like an abandoned office of some sort, with empty cubicles as far as the eye could see. In the big conference room that they had come out of, a huge table was groaning with food and cases of bottled water. The corner of the room held a stocked medical locker, which hopefully they wouldn’t need. Which gave Grantaire an idea: if the fighting was getting ugly and Joly was refusing to get out for his own safety, Grantaire might be able to at least convince him to come back here and do what medical school had prepared him for. Did they even have another doctor at the barricade? Probably not. Valjean popped his back and disturbed the dusty silence, making the two other men jump.

“Sorry, boys, but at my age, you tend to creak. Think we should start with bottles of water and then move from there? I wish I had thought to deliver breakfast pastries for everyone, but in all the rushing, I forgot,” Valjean said. They each picked up two cases of water and went back into the claustrophobic tunnel, dropping them off in the center of the circle where Musichetta and Jehan were on hand to hand them out.

“What’s going on, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked before heading back in. Enjolras pocketed his phone.

“Completely surrounded by police, news vans everywhere, traffic jammed like an old printer. No word from the chief yet, but it’s only a matter of time,” he replied.

“Javert, for all his multitude of personal flaws, is a smart man. An hour or two at the most before he’s willing to save face and negotiate, I’ll bet,” Valjean put in, “But you need to be constantly on your guard because he does not negotiate with any ease or compromise. I’ve spent almost forty years haunted by him and he’s not going to suddenly make a complete lifestyle change now. Remind him that his officer is in violation of federal law and that might give you a window.”

“I’ve already done that, sir,” Enjolras said. Grantaire was still processing the whole ‘forty years’ part of Valjean’s warning. What kind of heinous crime had Valjean, the spiritual and generous baker, committed in his murky past? Why was Javert still following him?

“Do it again. He respects neither life nor love, but he does respect his beloved Law,” Valjean stated. Then they went back through the tunnel, the end of which where Bahorel was already stockpiling boxes of granola bars and bags of apples.

“Yo, start taking these out. Should be enough to hold everyone over for a few hours, I think,” Bahorel told them. They started taking them out to where the water was, the visible relief on people’s faces a welcome sight.

Grantaire took a solo trip down the tunnel to grab the last food load when he heard yelling from the barricade. He dropped everything and darted back into the tunnel, scraping the top of his head as he rushed through. He saw, through the sea of heads, a pair of red Converse disappearing over the side of the barricade, pulled by a few pairs of arms that were being smacked at by rebar and fists. No. No!

“We have your leader,” Javert’s deadpan voice came through his megaphone, “Come out with your hands on the back of your heads before we _make_ you come out, termites.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup, ya'll? I hope you all enjoyed this little tryst into what's been going on with Grantaire after he and Enjolras' mini break-up a couple of chapters before Combeferre's death. Next up is Enjolras' experience at the mercy of the NYPD, so expect some cool Javert action.
> 
> I owe a special thank you to the mysterious reader who gently reminded my to get off my butt and keep writing this story. As always, thanks for reading and I love you all.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


	20. A Little Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras goes to up to bat with Javert to try to work out a compromise or at least gain intelligence as the barricade sage continues.

A young man on the track to someday becoming a lawyer should, at this point in his life, be spending more time out of a police car than in it. Enjolras had never been one to do what he “should” do. Could he even become a public defender if he had a rap sheet of (relatively minor) offenses as long as his leg? Why did he even care? He and Combeferre were going to finish their pre-law and pre-med degrees together, then go into graduate programs at probably different universities, then both return to New York and kick ass in their fields. That plan, theirs since they were like fourteen, had died. Stop all the clocks.

Enjolras tugged half-heartedly on the car door again, hoping that somehow the door would magically not be safety locked this time. No dice. He tried kicking at the shatterproof glass, getting a hard rap with a police baton on the divider between the cops and the arrested and a stern warning to knock it off. The door opened to Valdez holding a pair of cuffs, glorified zip-ties, really.

“The chief wants to talk to you, get out,” he said. Enjolras snorted.

“Tell the chief to piss off,” Enjolras replied. Valdez rolled his eyes.

“Come on, man, don’t do this. If you comply, we’ll leave the cuffs off. If you don’t, I’ll call Starling and Diggs over here and we’ll _carry_ you in, cuffs and all. Your choice,” Valdez said. Starling was one of his least favorite cops he’d been arrested by, as she had once worked for the feds and hadn’t quite gotten the memo that not everyone being arrested had to be handled like a rabid serial killer at the end of a nationwide manhunt. He would rather face the humiliation of momentary compliance than deal with her; his people needed him alive and hopefully not beaten into a coma. And Diggs was just a straight-up asshole.

“Whatever, okay,” he said. He got out of the car and Valdez took a firm grip on his bicep, true to his word that the cuffs weren’t going on. They started walking towards a building across the road, leaving Enjolras with three options: make a break for it, run away from the action, and hide out until nightfall; make a break for it, wade through a sea of cops and try to scale the barricade without being shot dead; or talk to Javert. The first option sounded good, until he remembered that they were completely surrounded with cops on watch for ten blocks and police choppers circling the sky. If he somehow made it out, there would be no way he could leave wherever he was hiding or make it back to the barricade, even at night. So that option was out. The second one, he would be shot in the back before even getting through all of the cops. That might break people’s morale. So that left him with the decidedly awful option of having a civil conversation with Javert and pretending things weren’t as high-stakes as they were. At least he might get some intelligence into the police reaction to the protest directly from the source as opposed to one of his satellite people outside the barricade.

“Mr. Enjolras, we meet again,” Javert said, “Please, have a seat.” Enjolras sat in the chair across from the chief; _Valdez_ still didn’t cuff him. The room was a dinky abandoned warehouse, the furniture a rickety card table and folding chairs. Javert still lorded over it like it was his own sparsely-decorated office.

“What do you need?” Enjolras asked. There was no use in formalities at this point.

“Call off your people,” Javert stated, “My patience with this little display has officially run out.” Okay, so apparently Javert was done with formalities as well. The cops seemed oddly… complacent with what was happening, as least from what he could tell from the gathering outside.

“So why not stop it? What are you waiting for?” Enjolras asked, then something in Javert’s expression made him chuckle, “Oh, you can’t get in, can you? You can’t bring it down?” Javert gave a tense and terrible smile.

“Your structure has proved… more sturdy than we anticipated, but, rest assured, it will come down at my command. Why not save yourself a lot of time and trouble and call everyone off? No one will be arrested, you have my word,” Javert said. Did he seriously think Enjolras was going to make things easy on him, just to save his own skin. He traced a lazy circle on the table.

“ _You_ could make this easy on yourself by placing James Perkins under arrest and charging him with first degree murder. That’s all we want from you at the moment. We know he did it and was unprovoked, you know he did it and was unprovoked-“

“No, we don’t, it’s your word against his-“

“In the last few years that you’ve, um, known Combeferre, has he ever seemed the type to carry a gun? To get violent? Did he even have a single charge for a violent offense? How does this not seem at least a little weird to you?” Enjolras shot back. Javert pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, okay, it doesn’t seem like a typical arrest gone wrong. And Perkins _has_ been known to rough up perps before,” Javert paused thoughtfully, “But no, no, one of my officers would never, _never_ do something like that. The shame it would bring the department, and the only witness to the altercation is MIA, we just can’t justify the arrest.” Enjolras resisted the urge to jump up and strangle him.

“The shame, sure. You don’t like just being a chief, do you? You want to move up to Commissioner? One or more of your officers, known as some of the cleanest in New York, turning out to be another dirty cop would look terrible for you. The mayor is so liberal that a killer cop being part of your squad would make sure you never get that ranking. Covering it up is going to make you look worse, you know,” Enjolras said, “And- wait, did you say Courfeyrac is still MIA? How the hell have you not found him?”

“I’m going to be extremely generous and ignore the comment about me committing a federal crime for my own selfish gains and instead focus on your last question. Mr. Courfeyrac has been missing since the altercation, his last confirmed sighting at the Corinth bar earlier that night in the company of Mr. Combeferre. We know he made a one-minute phone call to you around the time of death, then disappeared completely.  Do you have anything that might aid in our investigation, like details of the phone call, if you’ve seen or heard from him since…?” Javert asked.

“He said a cop shot Combeferre in Highland Park, then asked if I could have my dad, a lawyer, represent him if he got arrested, then said he wasn’t going to resist arrest and to not tell his mom if the cops decided he was anyway. That’s why we think he’s stashed somewhere, since the line went dead immediately after and nobody has had any contact with him since,” Enjolras said. Javert shuffled the files on his desk.

“We’ve run scans on every prison maximum and minimum, throughout the state. None of his name, his mugshot, his prints, anything that would indicate he had been formally arrested.”

“Fake name? Wait, his prints would still link back to him even with that, um,” Enjolras paused, “Is it possible to smuggle a prisoner into a prison and just totally make them disappear into the system?”

Javert thought for a minute, “I suppose it _could_ happen, if a few guards were bribed and it was a maximum security lockup. He’d be in solitary so no one could recognize him or ask any questions and he couldn’t let on what he knew. That’s a highly fantastical operation for someone to carry out, Mr. Enjolras.”

“I know, I _know_ it’s a long shot, but could you put out the message to have all the prisons in the state check their solitary cells? If he’s found there, he’ll tell everything, I swear. And Perkins will not get away with this if the witness describes him as guilty, swear it.”

“Swear to disassemble the barricade and it’s done.”

Javert had him trapped. Would the others understand? He’d have to keep the details extremely quiet, save for his immediate group of friends.

“Send me back up there and I will give the order. Find Courfeyrac, please, and all of this can be worked out.”

Javert nodded.

“I’m glad we could have this talk. You won’t regret it,” the chief said, baring his teeth. Enjolras did not return the smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I hoped you enjoyed this chapter! Next will be from Grantaire's.
> 
> -The Reclusive Author


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